


Companion

by DaltonG



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Acceptance, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Ankle Cuffs, BAMF!John, Bisexual John Watson, Bisexuality, Chinatown (SF), Columbarium (SF), Cuddling & Snuggling, Denny's (SF), Earthquakes, Edging, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fog, Foot Massage, Good Vibrations (SF), Hand Feeding, Handcuffs, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Torture, Impotence, Johnlock - Freeform, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, M/M, Massage, Meditation, Mel's Diner (SF), Mild Gore, Mycroft IS the British Government, Mycroft is just trying to help, Nightmares, Nipple Clamps, Panic Attacks, Past Drug Addiction, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Premature Ejaculation, Prostitute Sherlock, Rimming, Safer Sex, San Francisco, Sensation Play, Sex Games, Sherlock's canon food issues, St Regis Hotel (SF), Subdrop, Subspace, Switch John, Switch Sherlock, The Castro (SF), The Stud (SF), Touch-Starved, Vertigo (Film), Welcome Home (restaurant), Zen Center (SF), bi!john, cock gag, cremains (brief mention), dragon dance, fluid bonding, kosher Chinese vegetarian food, robert rich (musician), switchlock, the long-closed and much-missed Lotus Garden restaurant, you have to order rice separately in San Francisco
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-11
Updated: 2015-07-02
Packaged: 2018-04-04 00:12:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 67,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4119622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaltonG/pseuds/DaltonG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A love song to San Francisco. Sherlock is a very high-class prostitute--a Companion--attached to the St. Regis hotel. John is given an all-expenses paid trip to a medical conference at the St. Regis by a grateful patient. All-expenses includes...Sherlock.</p><p>[ON HIATUS WHILE I'M SICK] (not abandoned)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sunday: St Regis

**Author's Note:**

> Also: chapters that have mention of (off-screen, in-the-past) torture or child abuse will be clearly marked at the beginning. If you need to skip those chapters, you can leave me a comment and I'll send you a summary free of those triggers.
> 
> This fic will not have an epilogue. The final chapter will be a full-sized chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not Brit-picked.

_Sunday, 17:00 Pacific Time, June_  
  
“Hello, Doctor Watson. My name is Sherlock Holmes; I’ll be your Companion while you stay with us at the Saint Regis.”  
  
John took the hand extended and shook it, noting how it was rather larger than his and seemed to envelope his own in warmth. He looked up into blue-green eyes and blinked.  
  
“Um, okay, pleased to meet you.”  
  
“Tom, take the bags to suite 221-A.” The tall “companion” handed a keycard to the bellhop, who began rolling John’s small suitcase and garment bag towards the elevators.  
  
“I think I need to go check in…”  
  
“Not at all, Doctor. That’s been taken care of. Would you like to see your room?”  
  
“Uh, sure, that sounds great.” John followed the elegant stranger towards the elevators, bemused.  
  
In his locum practice in London, John had saved a multi-millionaire from near-death after a car accident. From a recovery room at St Bartholomew’s Hospital, the patient had offered John a reward, which John had modestly declined; when the young entrepreneur pressed, John named a charity and asked that she make a donation instead. He’d thought that was the end of it, until he received a large envelope at the practice containing credentials for an elite medical conference, along with a plane ticket to San Francisco and a reservation at a high-end hotel. The card attached had said “Accept graciously! A grateful patient.” After a day of hemming and hawing, his boss Sarah finally browbeat him into doing just that—accepting graciously, as it was rare that any of them got the funds to attend even local conferences.  
  
A limo had been awaiting John at San Francisco Airport’s International Terminal; he was the car’s only occupant, and he’d partaken of the 25-year-old Glenlivet in the back with some measure of guilt, thinking of his colleagues toiling away back at the NHS clinic. After a quiet ride through busy city streets where he glimpsed views of the Bay Bridge and the famous pyramidal TransAmerica building, he found himself deposited in an elegant lobby furnished with black and silver. This was all enjoyable, and along with the first-class Virgin Atlantic ticket, absolutely out of his experience, but not terribly surprising. The gentleman leading him into the elevator, however, _was_  most definitely surprising.  
  
John dug into the travel satchel slung across his good shoulder and pulled out the reservation information that he’d barely skimmed. He flipped to the accommodations page and found a bullet point list of amenities:  
  


  * Spa
  * 24-hour Fitness Center
  * Indoor Pool
  * 24-hour Concierge Service
  * 24-hour Room Service
  * 24-hour Companion



  
“Excuse me, Mr. Holmes, is it?”  
  
“Sherlock, please.”  
  
“Sherlock...what exactly is a _companion_?”  
  
Sherlock turned to him with a smile, clearly having expected this question.  
  
“I am your personal assistant during your stay. You are also welcome to avail yourself of the concierge service, but I hope to be able to meet _all_  of your needs while you are with us. I have a room—Room B—that is adjacent to yours, if you prefer that I stay there.” This was clearly a description he had recited many times before.  
  
“And what do you mean by,” John cleared his throat a bit, “‘meet _all_  of my needs’?”  
  
“Anything that you might need during your stay. I can arrange transportation to local attractions, make dinner reservations, run errands, see to any secretarial chores you may have, wake you if you wish, provide massages, attend to sexual desires, take notes in conference sessions, see to laundry and dry cleaning, and take care of anything else that you can think of that would make your stay more pleasant.” At the end of this pronouncement, Sherlock smiled widely.  
  
John blinked a few times.  
  
“That’s rather a lot to take in.”  
  
“I take it this is your first experience with a Companion-equipped hotel.”  
  
“Yes...yes, you could say that.”  
  
“I think you will find it a pleasant improvement on ordinary hotel amenities.”  
  
“Well, it’s certainly different, I’ll grant you that.”  
  
The elevator dinged in an understated way as they reached the twenty-second floor.  
  
“Right this way, Doctor.”  
  
Sherlock slid a keycard into the reader and opened the door to a suite that looked to be larger than John’s entire flat back home. He wandered around the room, admiring the modern design and the pretty view of skyscrapers wrapped in fog, with glimpses of the bay beyond.  
  
The bellboy entered, hung the garment bag in a large closet, and placed the suitcase on a credenza.  
  
“Thank you, Tom,” Sherlock said silkily.  
  
“Oh, yes, thank you,” John stammered, reaching for his wallet. (He'd been warned about tipping in America.)  
  
“No no, Doctor, all gratuities are included. And you have been _most_  generous.” Sherlock smiled widely again, and Tom grinned in agreement, lifted his cap, and pulled the cart back out the door.  
  
“May I fix you a drink?”  
  
“Uh, maybe some cold water?”  
  
Sherlock moved to the kitchenette, pulled a bottle of smartwater from the refrigerator, and poured it into a large, art deco-style glass.  
  
“Thank you.” John took the glass and sat down on the couch, completely overwhelmed. He gulped at the water.  
  
“You have more questions.”  
  
“Yes, I do.”  
  
“You want to know about the sexual aspect. You want to know if this is ethical: whether I am comfortable with this job. The sexual services are optional; you will not hurt my feelings if you decide not to indulge in them. It is entirely ethical and, in fact, legal in the city of San Francisco. I am paid well and, as I mentioned, your gratuity was more than generous. I have been a Companion at Saint Regis for a year now; I am extremely good at my job—I daresay the best in the Companion business—and I enjoy it immensely.  
  
“The surprise and variety of requests from my clients keep me from being bored. I am tested after every client and can provide you with documentation of my clean bill of health; in addition, I always use safer sex practices, and that is non-negotiable. There is nothing you can ask me to do that will offend me; there is little that I am not willing to do, and I am not shy about saying if something is off the table. It may take you some time to acclimate to the idea of such a personal assistant, but most people find themselves comfortable within a day and begin to wonder how they ever lived without me. I can be as present or as discreet as you prefer. I am an excellent observer of humans and will be able to tell what you want or need, for the most part, without you even having to ask.”  
  
This was all delivered at a speed that John had only heard when Harry was drinking Raging Bulls.  
  
“You need some time to take this in. I shall retire to my adjoining room, just through this door; knock if you need anything or if you feel like having company again.” Sherlock graced him with one more dazzling smile and disappeared through a door between some cabinets and the wall of windows.  
  
John rubbed his face and sighed. He wasn’t sure how to react. Sherlock was right; he was concerned about the ethics of this arrangement. He didn’t see how asking Sherlock for _anything_  would not constitute taking advantage of him, even if he was being paid well. It didn’t sit right, someone doing things for him that he should do for himself. Things that he _did_  do for himself; had done, all his life.  
  
He thought about how being served in first class didn’t bother him; how being driven from the airport seemed reasonable, how having someone carry up luggage that he was able to carry himself seemed like a waste of money, but certainly didn’t seem _unethical_. What was the difference? All those people were paid to serve him. And to be honest, he was enjoying it. He had never been exposed to luxurious things like this; his family had been lower-middle class, always struggling for money, and as an Army doctor, he had never seen the comfortable paychecks most doctors made. Now, as a part-time NHS locum, his paycheck barely supplemented his Army disability pension, and having a second pint at the pub on a Friday night was an extravagance.  
  
When it came right down to it, all the services Sherlock had suggested were reasonable, if superfluous—it really _was_  just the sex thing. That was just too personal; the only thing he could think of that was worse would be asking Sherlock to wipe his arse after he used the loo. Well, that settled it. There would be no partaking of sexual services, then. He could live with—well, enjoy, even!—the rest of it.  
  
He rose and knocked at Sherlock’s door. It opened immediately. Sherlock stepped back into his room and gazed at him for a moment.  
  
“You’ve decided to use all my services except the sexual. A mistake, if you ask me; I’m quite good. Well, that’s an understatement. Your decision is a bit of a disappointment; but, as promised, you have not hurt my feelings, and I want you to be comfortable. What would you like to do next? A shower, perhaps, or maybe a luxury bath with salts and aromatherapy? Some television with a beer? Perhaps you feel tired from the flight; maybe a foot rub? I could work on that psychosomatic pain in your leg.”  
  
“How…” John’s mouth dropped open. He hadn’t used the cane in several months now, and he thought he hid the slight limp that remained rather well, thank you.  
  
“I told you: I observe, Doctor. You do an excellent job of compensating for it, but your gait is slightly off—most people wouldn’t notice—and you hold the opposite shoulder a bit higher in compensation. You also hold it higher due to the real injury you retained in that shoulder when you were in service, most likely in Afghanistan or Iraq. You look annoyed when your leg twinges, as it did in the elevator; you look pained when your shoulder hurts, as it did when you removed your satchel. The leg pain is a psychological response to a real, traumatic injury to the shoulder.”  
  
“That’s amazing!”  
  
“Really? Well, yes...I suppose it is.” Sherlock’s smile was smaller and a bit shy. “That’s not what most people say.”  
  
“What do most people say?”  
  
“‘Cut it out,’ or words to that effect. I always try a deduction once with a new client; not sure why, because no one wants to hear it, so I keep my observations to myself for the most part and simply act on them. I’ve consequently been accused of having psychic abilities. Always in an admiring tone, of course. Clients love to have their needs anticipated; they just don’t want to know how it’s done.”  
  
“I think I’d prefer to hear how it’s done, myself.” John gave Sherlock a smile, the first since he’d encountered the man, and Sherlock looked a bit smug for a moment before he schooled his features back into a pleasant concierge-style expression.  
  
“So, shower? Bath? Beer? Rub-down?”  
  
“I think I’ll take a shower and then have that beer, thanks.”  
  
Sherlock moved towards the bathroom, but John stopped him.  
  
“I can run my own shower.”  
  
“Okay,” Sherlock said easily. “May I unpack for you?”  
  
“That, you can certainly do.” John made his way into the bathroom, limping a bit more noticeably since he obviously didn’t need to hide it from his new Companion (the capital “C” was all too obvious in the way the man pronounced it).  
  
This might not be so bad.  
  


* * *

  
_18:00_  
  
John sighed heavily as he exited the bathroom in a fragrant cloud of steam, wrapped in a thick terrycloth robe. He definitely felt better for having washed his travel day off. The products for the shower were of a quality he didn’t know existed; the scents were subtle and spicy, the feel of the liquids silky and rich, and his skin felt renewed and tingly from the scrub sponge he’d found. He fell upon the couch and put his feet up on the low table in front, noting appreciatively that Sherlock had put a football match on the large screen TV. Sherlock sat down next to him and handed him a pint glass with a head of froth on a rich, very dark stout.  
  
John took a sip.  
  
“Ah, Guinness...good guess.”  
  
“Thank you, though I do not guess. May I work on your leg?” Sherlock helped John turn so that he was leaning back against the arm of the couch, his bare legs stretched onto Sherlock’s lap. Sherlock rubbed some scent-free oil from a small bottle onto his hands and began stroking softly over the skin of the recalcitrant leg. He ran his fingertips up and down the calf and knee, over and over, and then began the massage proper, using just the right pressure—firm, but not painfully so. John watched as skilled fingers carefully probed between the muscles, stimulating the blood flow and releasing the phantom ache.  
  
“Fuck, that’s good, that is,” John groaned. Sherlock smiled but did not look up from his task. After a few minutes, John set the glass on the table and felt his eyes growing heavy.  
  
When he looked up again, a soft, warm blanket covered him, and a few lights were on in the suite, counteracting the gloom that had settled as the sun went down behind the fog bank.  
  
“Sorry, didn’t mean to fall asleep on you.”  
  
“Quite all right. Always a compliment to a masseur, you know.” Sherlock looked up from where he was reading on a tablet. “How does the leg feel?”  
  
“Much better, thank you. How were you able to massage out an imaginary ache?”  
  
“Psychosomatic, Doctor. A pain of the mind responds well to the placebo effect. I was confident with the massage and made you believe that it would work.”  
  
“‘John’, please. If we are going to spend this week together you can’t keep calling me ‘Doctor’.”  
  
“John, then. The question is, did mentioning the placebo effect, just now, eliminate its efficacy?”  
  
John flexed his leg a bit.  
  
“No, it seems to be holding.” They grinned at each other.  
  
“Would you like to go out for dinner, or would you like to have it brought to your room tonight?”  
  
“Something in the room would be nice...you’ll be eating too, of course?”  
  
“I’ll have something.”  
  
“What do you think, pizza? Do they have Chinese food delivery in America?”  
  
“They have everything-delivery in San Francisco, but I would recommend something from our premier restaurant, Ame. Do you trust me to order for you?”  
  
John chuckled. “Sure, why not.”  
  
A half-hour later, the small dining table was laden with a meal that smelled mouthwatering. Sherlock named the offerings as he uncovered them:  
  
“To start, an autumn vegetable salad and cream of artichoke soup, followed by a grilled Berkshire pork chop with braised pork belly. I’ve paired this with the Côtes du Rhone, the 2008.” Sherlock opened the wine and poured a bit into a glass; he swirled it, smelled it, and tasted it.  
  
“Yes, that will do nicely.” He then poured a full glass for John and a half-glass for himself.  
  
John unfolded the soft cloth napkin in his lap. “What will you be having?”  
  
“I’m having the cuttlefish noodles. Normally, one wouldn’t have a red with seafood, but I happen to like this pairing.” He twirled his fork in his bowl and ate a single noodle. John tucked into the salad and immediately froze after a forkful.  
  
“This is fucking incredible,” he said, once he’d swallowed.  
  
“Yes, we are rather proud of our chef.” Sherlock looked as pleased as if he had cooked the meal himself.  
  
As John ate, Sherlock regaled him with tales of some of his more colourful clients and refilled John’s wine glass twice. John noticed that Sherlock ate but another two bites of his own dish; by contrast, John had to restrain himself from mopping up the sauce on his own plate with the exquisite warm sourdough that had come with the meal.  
  
“Oh Sherlock, you did an excellent job. You can order my meals any time.”  
  
“It would be my pleasure,” Sherlock said as he stood to phone room service to come retrieve the dishes.  
  
Once the table was cleared, John stretched and sighed with satisfaction. “I think I’ll retire now; it’s been a long day.”  
  
“Excellent.” Sherlock went to turn down the bed; he fluffed the pillows as well. “I assume you would prefer I go to my own room?”  
  
“It won’t offend you?”  
  
“I told you, John, you won’t hurt my feelings by asking for what you want, including when you ask me _not_  to do things.”  
  
“Then yeah, I think that’s probably best.”  
  
“Okay then. What time would you like to get up?”  
  
“The opening conference ceremony is at ten, so, say, oh-eight-hundred?”  
  
“Oh-eight-hundred it is. Good night, John.”  
  
“Good night, Sherlock.”  
  


* * *

  
_Monday, 02:00_  
  
The white-hot pain of the bullet piercing the front of his body and exploding out his back was surprising every time. John felt the familiar affronted anger that something had dared violate his shoulder, swiftly followed by despair as he fell on the hot sand with gunfire whizzing above his head. A strange burning smell filled his nose. He heard yelling and realized it was coming from his own throat; it sounded oddly far away. He scrabbled at the sand but could get no purchase; he tried to shift his legs, but it was as though the right one was pinned down by an immoveable weight. He looked down and saw a body lying across it. Panic set in as he realized he could not sit up without risking more injury from the active firefight. He was trapped.  
  
He gasped as his eyes opened to a darkened room, city lights reflected on the ceiling he was staring at. He was panting; his heart was pounding. For a few moments he could feel the piercing, unbelievable pain of the fresh shoulder wound; then it faded into the exaggerated ache that always came after these nightmares. He curled over on his side and tried to calm his breathing. He pounded his fist into the mattress, once. Not a single night...he couldn’t have even _one_  bloody night without this nightmare.  
  
Slowly, he sat up and rubbed his face. Usually, at this point, there was no hope of going back to sleep; he would have to pass the rest of the night watching uninspiring wee-hours television and trying to forget the images that kept flashing across his eyes. He could still smell the ghost-scent of his own cauterized flesh.  
  
He glanced at the clock. He’d only gotten three hours of sleep this time; not nearly enough to make it through a day of conference sessions.  
  
He stared at the door in the wall that led to the adjoining room.  
  
What the hell. He had to try to get some more sleep.  
  
“Sherlock? Sherlock, could I trouble you?”  
  
The door opened to reveal Sherlock in jeans and the shirt he’d been wearing earlier, looking fresh and awake. Low lights were on in his room.  
  
“John? What can I do for you?”  
  
John coughed nervously.  
  
“I, I was wondering if you could. Um.”  
  
“Come and sleep with you?”  
  
“Yes, but not with, I mean, I don’t want any…”  
  
“No sex, I understand. What would you like me to wear?”  
  
“Do you have any, I dunno, sleep trousers? Pyjamas, maybe?”  
  
“Of course. Shirt, or not?”  
  
“Uh…”  
  
“Ask for what you want, John,” Sherlock said softly.  
  
“No shirt.”  
  
“It would be my pleasure. Give me a moment.” Sherlock stepped back in his room, turned off the lights, and came back to John wearing soft cotton sweatpants, tied with a drawstring. He closed the door and followed John to the bed.  
  
“I’m sorry about this…”  
  
“It’s no trouble, John. Would you like me to lie behind you?” Sherlock positioned himself on the bed on his side, curled towards John’s back, not touching.  
  
“Yes, please.”  
  
“Would you like me to hold you?”  
  
John’s “yes” was a whisper. Sherlock closed the distance and pressed close to John, enfolding him within the curve of his long body. He wrapped an arm around John’s stomach.  
  
“How is this,” he asked, his voice low in John’s ear.  
  
“Good, yeah, thanks,” John said. His body was tense, all muscles coiled as though ready to spring from the bed. Sherlock’s bare chest pressed against John’s bare back, the skin warm against his own. The fragrance of Sherlock’s faint cologne replaced the remembered smell of his dream. He laid his hand tentatively on Sherlock’s forearm and took a deep breath.  
  
He was alarmed to find that it came back out with a sob. Quietly, John began to weep.  
  
Sherlock stroked John’s hair with his free hand.  
  
“How long has it been since someone held you?” he asked gently.  
  
“Years,” John choked out.  
  
“It’s a crime. You should be held every night.”  
  
After a long time, John’s breathing evened out as Sherlock slowly slid his fingers through John’s hair. When Sherlock could tell that John had finally fallen asleep, he leaned forward and pressed a light kiss against the top of his head.  
  
“You should be held every night, dear John,” he whispered.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course, Companions are not legal in San Francisco. Also, The St Regis is not properly in the fog zone; literary license! The room service dishes were selected from the Ame menu available at the time this was written.


	2. Monday: St Regis, Mel's Diner, Good Vibrations

  
_Monday, 11:20_  
  
John woke slowly. He opened his eyes to the unique view of the tips of skyscrapers peeping above a thick fog bank. He stretched, feeling a languor in his muscles, and noticed warmth along his back. Oh! He’d asked Sherlock to sleep with him. Evidently, Sherlock was still with him, in the bed. He rolled over and scooted back a bit.  
  
“Good morning, John,” a deep voice greeted.  
  
“Mm, g’morning, Sherlock. What time is it?”  
  
“Eleven twenty.”  
  
“WHAT?” John sat up quickly and peered at the clock on the table next to him. “Fuck! You were supposed to wake me at eight! What happened?”  
  
Sherlock tilted his face towards John. He looked quite unconcerned.  
  
“You were sleeping peacefully, and I decided to let you rest.”  
  
“That was _not_  your decision to make. I’ve missed the opening remarks! I have ten minutes to get ready and make it down there for the first session. Shit, this is _not good._ ” John moved to get out of the bed but was restrained by a tight grip on his wrist.  
  
“You needed the sleep,” Sherlock said pointedly.  
  
“Not. Your. Decision.”  
  
Sherlock looked straight into John’s eyes. “You’ve been back from the field, either Afghanistan or Iraq, for a little over a year. Between your night terrors and the pain from your injury, you haven’t slept more than three or four hours a night, usually interrupted, in all that time. You are running on fumes, using nerves and adrenaline to power through an ever-increasing sleep deficit and psychic exhaustion, and if you don’t change something, you are very close to a total collapse.  
  
“Your therapist has been warning you about this for some time, but you choose to ignore him. Evidently, having a warm body next to you allowed your brain to stand down for once, and I considered eight hours of uninterrupted sleep far more important to your health and the health of your patients than an hour of conference officials’ accolades and self-congratulations, empty of any medical information whatsoever, accompanied by weak, bitter coffee and overly sweetened pastries.”  
  
All of this was delivered at so rapid a pace that John could barely differentiate the words, and it was uttered in an urgent, quiet tone that caught his attention far better than yelling would have. He blinked a few times, and Sherlock released his wrist, which immediately felt a bit chilled at the departure of those warm, long fingers.  
  
“How could you know all that?”  
  
“Simple observation, John. You’ve had your job for less than six months, else you wouldn’t feel quite so guilty at having been sent on this junket instead of other doctors who have been at the practice longer. You were invalided out and likely took time to regroup, but only until your pension was no longer enough to feed you, which would have been about six months. Your nightmare last night, which was quite audible next door even with the excellent soundproofing in this hotel, was clearly an ordinary occurrence; you did not appear frightened or surprised when you knocked on my door but instead were resigned.  
  
“While you still walk with a military bearing, it is slower than even your limp would account for, and your shoulders droop with such weariness that it makes me tired just to look at you. You are on edge and show all the classic signs of someone who has been under unbearable stress for a long time: dark circles under your eyes, slightly irregular heartbeat, pulse consistently too fast, and muscle knots that are all but frozen into your body. And I have been to enough conferences to know exactly how useless opening remarks are, regardless of topic.”  
  
“That’s amazing!”  
  
“Perhaps to you.”  
  
“Got one thing wrong, though.”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“My therapist is female.”  
  
Sherlock sighed. “There’s always something.”  
  
John rolled his shoulders and rubbed at his face. “This is all very interesting, but a benefactor spent quite a lot of money to send me to this conference, and the NHS is paying my salary for this week expecting me to come back informed of the latest drug discoveries and general practice techniques, so regardless of how _observant_  you’ve been, I have to go get ready now and try to catch as much of the rest of today’s sessions as I can.”  
  
Sherlock growled in a frustrated tone. “John. Consider this: you can spend this week attending long-winded lectures, hearing information that you could glean from reading abstracts and news highlights in the journals in about an hour’s work, but instead have it spread out over the course of five tedious days of sitting in dim, overheated rooms populated by bored strangers with halitosis. Or, you can spend this week investing in yourself: resting, refreshing, restoring, and then go back to England with renewed energy, able to take in that hour’s worth of new information in some concentrated reading on the plane, able to make quicker and more accurate diagnoses and able to help far more people than you would working at a tenth of your strength, as you are now, or worse, languishing in a ‘rest facility’ after a complete nervous breakdown. Which makes more sense?!”  
  
John stood and looked out the window over the dramatic fog that was rolling in so quickly it looked like the opening scenes of _Koyaanisqatsi_. It was quite beautiful.  
  
He felt his immoveable sense of duty pushing against the irresistibility of Sherlock’s logic. What this odd, attractive stranger—who appeared in his life unexpectedly, in the role of what was essentially “prostitute”—had said, was rational. He took a deep breath, felt the ache in his shoulder, and told his sense of duty to shove it.  
  
“Okay. I’m in. Let the resting begin.”  
  
Sherlock beamed at him.  
  


* * *

  
_12:00_  
  
After a quick shower, John exited the bathroom in jeans, rubbing a towel over his head, to hear Sherlock on the phone finishing up a breakfast order.  
  
“Oi, Sherlock. Let’s go out instead.”  
  
“Cancel that, Maureen. It seems we’re going out. Right, you too.” Sherlock set the phone down. “Where do you want to go?”  
  
“It’s your town; what do you recommend?”  
  
“Mel’s Diner. Classic American-style food: breakfast, lunch, or dinner, any time. It is a few blocks from here.”  
  
“Sounds great. Do they do a fry-up?”  
  
“Of a sort. Thank God, blood pudding never caught on over here.”  
  
“That’s a shame.” John grinned and slipped on a plain grey t-shirt, tucking it into the waistband of a pair of jeans. Sherlock was already dressed in a crisp, charcoal-coloured suit, with an ostentatiously too-tight silk shirt underneath. The silk was azure, and Sherlock knew it made his eyes appear very blue. He held out his arm, John tucked his hand around the proffered elbow, and they headed out.  
  
On the sidewalk, it was chilly enough that Sherlock was certain John would regret not bringing a jacket or a jumper, like most tourists.  
  
“It’s June! Why is it so bloody cold?”  
  
“The Pacific ocean currents bring chilled water from Alaska to the shores of the American Northwest year-round. When the wind is blowing from the beach, it acts as a natural air conditioner, which keeps San Francisco temperate, while the East Bay and the Central Valley are baking in a more traditional summer climate. You should hear the whining around here when the wind blows the other direction.”  
  
John chuckled. Sherlock opened the door and ushered John into the restaurant with a hand on the small of his back. Sherlock watched John shiver a bit at the touch. Then John was distracted by an old song, “Unchained Melody”, playing through the speakers mounted overhead.  
  
_Oh, my love, my darling_  
_I've hungered for your touch_  
_A long, lonely time..._  
  
John marvelled at the shiny silver interior, the black and white photographs serving as wallpaper murals, and the general atmosphere of a place trying to preserve a time from another century. As they slid into a booth, John gaped at the sight of a private jukebox.  
  
“Oh, I haven’t seen one of those in ages! My Da used to take me to a pub that had these.” He immediately began flipping through the song selections.  
  
“You might want to select your meal first,” Sherlock chided, handing him a menu.  
  
“Hey, I know what these photos are,” John said, looking around at the walls. “They’re from _American Graffiti_! I love that movie! Wait, are these pictures the same as the drive-in that Curt and Steve hung out at?”  
  
Sherlock sighed. “Mel’s is a local chain; the one on Van Ness was used in some of the filming, though most of the movie was filmed on location in Petaluma, where George Lucas misspent his youth cruising up and down a single street in uselessly modified cars.”  
  
“Wow! That’s so cool! Can we go to that one later?”  
  
“If we must.” Sherlock’s mouth quirked as he tried to hide his smile at John’s innocent enthusiasm.  
  
“What do you recommend for the True American Breakfast Experience?”  
  
“A burger, wet fries, and a malt.”  
  
“Then that’s what I’ll get! Ha ha, a burger for breakfast; I love it!”  
  
John slipped quarter after quarter into the jukebox as Sherlock picked at a field greens salad and tried not to wince as each overplayed golden oldie blared over the loudspeakers. Every time John looked up at him, he schooled his features to his usual pleasant façade. John didn’t seem to notice; Sherlock was glad, as the relaxed contentment with the food and the ambiance was clearly novel to this broken ex-soldier. He congratulated himself on providing first-rate service to this new client, as per usual.  
  


* * *

  
_12:45_  
  
“What next?” asked John, stuffing his jeans pocket with a handful of vintage candy that he’d purchased as they settled the bill at the counter.  
  
“That is up to you. We could go sightseeing; we could take in a movie at the cinema across the street; we could—”  
  
“What’s that?” John asked, peering down the block at the overhead signs. “‘Good Vibrations’. What is that, some kind of hippy store?”  
  
Sherlock smirked. “It is a truly unique San Francisco experience. Why don’t we go there next?”  
  
John barked out a laugh when they stepped through the door and he realized that he’d just been brought to a _sex shop_. Dildos, riding crops, masks, and other items, which were not immediately identifiable, lined the walls in a clean, brightly lit room. Customers milled about and murmured in low tones. The atmosphere was far from what he had ever imagined a sex shop would entail. As he looked around, he realized that the majority of the customers were female. And there were so many different types of people...chubby women in sensible clothes, androgynous punks, a stereotypically femmy gay couple—even a woman with a baby in a sling on her chest! A clerk with a bright pink crew cut, wearing a “Good Vibrations” t-shirt, was turning a large, loud vibrator on and off, demonstrating it to a goth teenager. “It’s for my girlfriend; she likes a strong sensation,” the kid was explaining.  
  
“This is fantastic! I’ve never been any place like it!” John breathed in wonder.  
  
Sherlock steered John towards the small collection of anal plugs against one wall.  
  
“See anything you fancy?”  
  
John giggled nervously, blushing.  
  
“It doesn’t have to be something you use with me,” Sherlock said soothingly. “It can be a souvenir you take home. Have you ever tried one?”  
  
“No, of course not!”  
  
“Hm, I’m not sure why that should be a foregone conclusion, but allow me to suggest this beginner’s model here.” Sherlock picked up a red silicone toy called the “Sidekick”, according to the sign affixed to its shelf. He handed it to John, who fumbled and almost dropped it.  
  
John glanced around. Other customers were taking no notice of him; a woman standing near him had strapped on some kind of harness and was holding a dildo up to her pelvis, asking her friend (partner?) if the base was wide enough. John looked down at the toy in his hand and ran a finger experimentally down the side. It was smooth, and it had a bit of give to it. He looked up at Sherlock, utterly lost.  
  
“Come on, let’s initiate you into the open expression of sexuality in San Francisco.” Sherlock tugged him up to the counter and bought the thing, chatting easily with a middle-aged woman who looked like a classic librarian—glasses and somewhat frumpy hair, bright arm tattoos notwithstanding—who handed Sherlock a bag (after charging him twenty-five cents extra) and a complimentary packet of lube.  
  
John almost ran back outside; he could feel how hot his face was. Sherlock joined him on the sidewalk with a rather smug expression.  
  
“I suggest we return to the room for some John-centric pampering.”  
  
“I think I can suffer through that. Lead on, Sherlock.”  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything about Mel’s and GV is true, wet fries and all. And yes, we have to pay a quarter for a paper shopping bag out here now. Plastic bags are right out--they are illegal. We all look like 1900s country villagers going to market for our daily vegetables (as we trudge, instead, into Best Buy looking for a USB hub) with heaps of ratty cloth bags draped over our arms. 
> 
> By the way, those of us obtaining or who have somehow achieved (LIKE ME!) an MLIS (Master in Library & Information Sciences) would like you to know that there is no “librarian stereotype” and it is a dreadful, uncouth thing to perpetuate one. In fact, you are more likely to find librarians with tattoos than fussy librarians who will “Shush!” you. (However, an awful lot of us do seem to wear glasses.) So apologies to all in the profession for this ridiculous, unconscionable, and lazy use of the stereotype. (But you knew what I meant, right? *sigh*)
> 
> “Unchained Melody”  
> Lyrics quoted from [MetroLyrics](http://www.metrolyrics.com/unchained-melody-lyrics-the-righteous-brothers.html)  
> Music by Alex North; lyrics by Hy Zaret


	3. Monday (cont.): St Regis

  
_Monday, 13:30_  
  
John plopped down on the couch with a sigh as Sherlock took off his bespoke suit jacket and laid it over the desk.  
  
“So what does John-centric pampering look like, then?” He tried to sound hearty.  
  
“I’m going to give you a full-body massage, John. Non-sexual, of course.”  
  
“Ah.”  
  
“Massage not your cup of tea? You seemed to enjoy the one on your leg well enough.”  
  
“Sorry, too much physical therapy, I suppose. Had rather enough of the excruciating pain over the past year.”  
  
“While some of it may be painful, I assure you none of it will be excruciating, and most of it is meant to be soothing. Perhaps you’ve not had a relaxing massage before?”  
  
“Guess not.”  
  
“Fear not, John; you are in good hands.” Sherlock smiled and flexed said hands, then set about pulling a table straight out of a piece of wall.  
  
“Murphy ‘table’, if you will. I’ll step out for a moment; go ahead and remove as much of your clothing as you are comfortable with, and lie down on this.” He detached the long, padded table from the wall and wheeled it over to the ample space between the credenza and the bed; then he disappeared into his adjoining room.  
  
John stared after him. A massage? A “recreational, non-sexual” massage? He’d heard people did this sort of thing, but he couldn’t imagine how it would be remotely enjoyable. He could refuse; ask Sherlock to do something less intimidating, less invasive. Like what, though? What else could a sex worker do for him that would be considered pampering? With a sigh, he pulled his t-shirt over his head, his nose wrinkling as he caught the embedded smell of fried grease from the restaurant. He stood. His fingers hovered over the button on his jeans.  
  
_Oh, what the hell_ , he thought. _Worst it could do is loosen up my shoulder a bit. I can always take some paracetamol if it’s too bad._  He pulled off his jeans, making sure to leave on his white briefs.  
  
The table was low, just a meter off the ground, and was covered in a soft, fitted white sheet. There was an odd doughnut-shaped attachment at the end. He lay down on the table on his back and stared up at the ceiling, feeling resigned and clasping his hands over his stomach. Sherlock walked back in the moment he was settled.  
  
“Turn on your front, please, John, and scoot up so your face is in the cradle.” John complied awkwardly. He saw Sherlock had changed into loose cotton trousers and a tight black t-shirt. He heard a strange wet sound and looked up from the padded doughnut-thing, craning his neck back to see where Sherlock was standing behind him, on his left, rubbing his hands together briskly.  
  
“Massage oil. Minimizes skin-to-skin friction. I use unscented. Though there are some proven psychological benefits to aromatherapy, I don’t feel it’s necessary in a massage.”  
  
John dropped his head back onto the “cradle”. He had a stunning view of the room’s thick pewter-coloured carpet. It made him uncomfortable not to see what was going on.  
  
“Just raising the table,” Sherlock warned as the table indeed lifted under him. “You won’t be too high, but it needs to be at an ergonomic level for me. I’m going to touch you now, John. Very lightly, just on your exposed skin, just to wake it up and acclimate you a bit.” Sherlock began doing that, laying large, warm hands on John’s back and stroking slowly, without pressure, all over his back until it was coated with a thin layer of oil. He carefully pulled John’s left arm up onto the table.  
  
“Does that position hurt?”  
  
“No, it’s okay.”  
  
Sherlock proceeded to lightly stroke the arm in question. Then he moved to the backs of John’s legs. John noticed that he wasn’t just using his fingertips but that he was touching John with his whole hands: fingers, thumbs, and palms. It felt different than when the physical therapists massaged him. Well, in more ways than just full-hand use; they never simply _touched_  him like this; they always went straight for digging painfully into his shoulder.  
  
Sherlock moved around the end of the table, brushing his hands over every inch of John’s right leg but not pushing, not grabbing. He moved up to lift John’s right arm onto the table and stroked it completely; finally, he stood at the head of the table and slowly moved both hands on John’s neck and up over his hair, covering the skull and holding his hands against John’s head for a minute. It was oddly intimate.  
  
With an audible breath, Sherlock moved back to the left side of the table.  
  
“Now I’ll begin massaging you lightly to wake up the muscles. Nothing should hurt at this point; let me know if anything does.” He began touching John’s back more firmly, pressing down a little and moving his hands in slow circles.  
  
As he rubbed over the large scar on John’s shoulder, stimulating the odd combination of numb patches and overactive nerves that sent confusing, not-quite-pain signals, John realized this was the first person to touch the scar who was not a medical professional. In fact, Sherlock had seen him with his shirt off several times now, and John hadn’t thought twice about exposing his scar. He’d been self-conscious about it up until now, refusing to show Harry when she indelicately demanded to see it, and wearing a shirt when he went to the pool for therapeutic exercise. Why didn’t he mind if Sherlock saw it? He guessed it was because Sherlock was a stranger, someone he didn’t care about; he had nothing to lose if this man found the scar hideous, as he’d never see this guy again after this week. He shrugged a little to himself, and Sherlock immediately ceased the movement of his hands, though he didn’t lift them from John’s skin.  
  
“What’s wrong? Did something hurt?”  
  
“No. Just, uh, too much thinking.”  
  
“Well, hopefully I’ll take care of that soon.”  
  
John became aware of a sort of soft music playing in the room.  
  
“What is that, some kind of new age music?”  
  
Sherlock scoffed softly. “Ambient drone. I abhor so-called ‘new age’-style music. Drone sounds are conducive to meditation, daydreaming, and in achieving an increased theta state in the frontal lobe. The artist is Robert Rich, in case you were wondering.”  
  
John chuckled at the thorough reply. “Whatever it is, I like it.”  
  
“That’s good.” Sherlock’s voice was low and soothing, complementary to the slow, gentle press of his hands around John’s body. They were quiet for a while, as John felt every inch of exposed skin being caressed gently and deliberately.  
  
“I’m going to begin some more purposeful movement now.”  
  
John blinked and realized his eyes had been closed. In fact, he may have drifted asleep.  
  
“Don’t worry; as I mentioned, falling asleep is the greatest compliment a masseur can get. Some of this may be a bit painful, but it should be no more than a 2 or 3 on the pain scale; let me know if anything goes over that.”  
  
Powerful fingers began to knead the muscles in John’s upper back. Sherlock stood at the head of the table and leaned over, pressing his hands down the length of John’s torso in strong, rhythmic strokes. John could feel Sherlock’s warm thighs leaning against the top of his head. He tried not to think about what was at the apex of those thighs, separated from him only by a thin layer of cotton. The mild pain of having knuckles dig in and draw furrows on either side of his spine distracted him, and he grunted.  
  
“Too much?”  
  
“No, I can take it.”  
  
“I didn’t ask if you could take it, I asked if it was too much.” The ploughing continued. “Is it over a 3 on a scale of 1 to 10?”  
  
“Yes, I know what the pain scale is, thank you, I _am_  a doctor. It’s about a 4.” The digging immediately stopped and hands started soothing flat strokes on his back, sweeping away from his spine to his sides.  
  
“John, I need you to be honest with me about the pain. I cannot do this properly if you will not tell me what you are feeling. It is especially critical for someone with injuries such as yours.”  
  
“Okay,” John mumbled, chastened.  
  
Sherlock moved down the table and started to work on the left leg. “I’m going to start doing a little between-muscle work. It’s going to feel strange, but again, it should not hurt more than a 3.”  
  
Before this week, no one had ever touched John’s legs since he’d been an adult, other than a few casual brushes from a lover, or the manhandling when doctors at the hospital were testing to make sure there was no real injury associated with his limp.  
  
This felt...nice. Warm hands were squeezing and probing, and he felt tension ebbing away that he hadn’t even known was there. When that leg had been well-pummelled, Sherlock moved onto the right leg.  
  
“I’m not going to work this leg as hard because of your pain.” John was grateful that he left off the “psychosomatic” descriptor. “Be sure to inform me right away if anything feels wrong.”  
  
Nothing felt wrong. In fact, it felt so right that John let out a low moan.  
  
“Good?”  
  
“Good.”  
  
For long minutes, Sherlock continued to rub and move muscles all over John’s body, and he began to drift again, floating on the soft low music and the overall tingle of having been touched continuously for longer than he could ever remember.  
  
“John. I need you to pay attention.” Sherlock touched his head lightly. “I’m going to begin the tough work now. We won’t go as hard as you probably do in physical therapy, but nonetheless, it’s going to hurt. I’m going to unlock some of the knots I’ve found. The pain should not go over a 6. Will you tell me if it does?”  
  
“Yes,” John said faintly.  
  
“We’ll start in your legs.”  
  
This was the type of massage John was used to; Sherlock found a pinpoint of pain in his upper-left thigh and leaned into it, hard, with his thumbs. John yelped.  
  
“Too much?”  
  
“No,” he said, panting. “I can take it. It’s a 5.”  
  
“Okay.” Sherlock held his position for long moments and then released, quickly rubbing the surrounding tissue. He repeated this several times until finally, it didn’t hurt as much.  
  
“There. We got that one to release. Can you feel the difference?”  
  
“Yeah, I can…”  
  
“Good. I won’t do too many today; the point of this is to care for you, not to bring you more stress. But I think relieving a few of these key spots will help you feel better when we’re done.” Sherlock did the same procedure at two points in John’s lower back: first under his good shoulder, down by his scapula, and then at the base of his neck, right under the occipital bone. There he dug in his fingertips and held, leaning over John’s head.  
  
“This is a common area for tension to build,” he said conversationally. “But I’ve never felt anyone so tight here as you are. A lot of your emotion is being carried up in here. Your laptop screen is too low on your desk; you bend your head to look at it. Do you get migraines? Yes, that’s unsurprising. As you know, that can come from neck tension, carrying up through the sheath of muscle that wraps over your skull. It wouldn’t hurt to have someone do this for you on a regular basis. And you should move your laptop up so that the top of the screen is level with your forehead when you are sitting up.”  
  
He shifted his fingertips, shooting new pain into John’s head. John grunted.  
  
“Still under a 6?”  
  
“Just barely. Where did you learn to do this?”  
  
“I went to school, like anyone else. At first I attended a massage therapist’s school, but the training was too soft; too much emphasis on _feelings_  and _making people comfortable_. Useless. I needed knowledge of the body, so I took an anatomy class, which was practically remedial, but the hands-on work with corpses supplemented what I already knew from my own studies. There’s a knack to finding where nerve bundles are, where muscles connect, how to break up adhesive tissue, that cannot be learned from books. Things the fingers have to be trained to do.”  
  
“You took an anatomy course?”  
  
“Yes, at Stanford. I picked a graduate level class but it was still wildly simplistic. Access to the lab and the morgue were worth it, though.”  
  
“Wait a minute. You learned to massage based on touching corpses?”  
  
“Yes, problem? There, we’re done. I needed to distract you through that; it can be quite unpleasant.” Sherlock began massaging John’s whole neck. It felt as though he was taking the pain that had been concentrated in that one tight band and was dissipating it out and away. He finished by running his full hands over the back of John’s head and down his neck, one after the other, creating a warming effect. John sighed with relief.  
  
“Okay, that’s the hard part done. I’ll do some gentler finishing to bring you down, and then we’ll work on your front.” Sherlock returned to the firm touch he’d used earlier, after “waking up the skin,” rubbing John slowly and thoroughly over all of his body.  
  
John marvelled at how different the touch of the full hand felt than when just the fingertips were doing more directed work. The long, even strokes filled his chest with a peculiar sensation, almost as though he wanted to cry.  
  
The touch lightened until it was just the faintest wisp of fingertips sliding over his skin. He could feel the pads of each finger swirling gently over his legs, his arms, his back, and finally his neck and scalp. He felt incredibly cared for.  
  
_Foolish_ , he thought. _This is a stranger. Common side-effect of the being touched after so long without._  
  
Sherlock ended just holding his palms on the top of John’s head for a minute.  
  
“Okay, roll over onto your back, and scoot down so your head is on the table,” Sherlock murmured.  
  
With a deep sigh, John began clambering over, feeling clumsy. As he turned, Sherlock held a thick towel, folded lengthwise, near his hip and draped it over his groin as he settled onto his back.  
  
“For modesty,” he explained. “Many men have a natural physiological reaction to massage, and I know you are concerned about that aspect of our relationship, so this should help you to keep from feeling self-conscious.”  
  
John coughed a little. “Uh, thank you.”  
  
“Would you like an eye mask, or would that make you uncomfortable?”  
  
“No, no eye mask. Absolutely not.”  
  
“I suspected as much. Feel free to close your eyes.” Sherlock laid his hands against the top of John’s head again. “We won’t do nearly as much work on the front. You’ve been through enough tension release, and many people are uncomfortable with having any sort of massage in the thoracic region. That’s a delicate art, as it is primarily composed of organs more than muscle. First I’ll be waking your skin again; just a light touch all over.”  
  
Sherlock ran his fingertips delicately over the skin of John’s face and moved on to full-hand smoothing over his arms, his chest and belly, and then skipped down to his legs and feet.  
  
“A little firmer work on your legs. I won’t be doing a foot massage; we can do that later tonight if you like.” He went on to knead the muscles, mostly in John’s thighs, and John felt a little more tension drain out of him, though he was very aware of the proximity of Sherlock’s hands to his towel-covered prick.  
  
Sherlock moved back up to the head of the table, never losing touch with John’s skin.  
  
“I’m going to do some more neck work. The technique may seem a bit strange, if you haven’t had this before; just trust me, and don’t try to hold your head up.”  
  
He cradled his hands under John’s head, and then he was pulling, slowly. John immediately flashed on that medieval torture device, the rack.  
  
“Don’t tense up. I won’t pull very far; this just eases some of the pressure between the vertebrae. An inverter table is better at working on the whole spine, but this is very good for the neck.” Slowly, he rotated John’s head a little to the right, then the left, then pulled a bit harder straight back. He eased John’s head back onto the table and then repeated the process a few times.  
  
“You’re right, that is rather alarming. Glad you warned me.” John looked up and caught a brief smile on Sherlock’s lips.  
  
“Now for the best part. Again, I need you to stay relaxed and remember that as I’m working, I’m not looking at your face as ‘John’s face’ but instead as a collection of muscles and skin, so don’t think about how you must look to me.”  
  
Large, warm hands covered his whole face briefly, but before John could panic, fingertips were pulling on his cheek muscles and moving them in circles. He had to fight to heed Sherlock’s direction and not try to sculpt his features back into a non-ridiculous expression.  
  
“Bear in mind that I am looking at you upside-down; it’s all uncanny valley at this angle anyway.”  
  
Sherlock did things to his cheeks, his eyebrows, and finally his forehead. John let his eyes close and thought of nothing but the feel of fingertips caressing him. To his alarm, he felt tears prickle and seep from under his eyelids, but Sherlock made no indication that he noticed.  
  
After a long while, Sherlock slowly moved his hands back to the top of John’s head and just held them there. They stayed there for long moments. John felt as though the crown of his head was buzzing. Very slowly, Sherlock removed his hands. John could feel the heat of them still being held near his head, centimetres away. And then it was over.  
  
“I’m going to wash my hands,” Sherlock said quietly. “Take a few minutes just to rest.”  
  
John pushed the heels of his hands against his closed eyes.  
  
_Get a hold of yourself, man._  
  
When Sherlock came back in, John was sitting up, legs dangling off the side of the table.  
  
“Let me put the table down for you. You may be a bit wobbly for a few minutes; perfectly normal.”  
  
Sherlock lowered the table and helped John off it, leading him to the bed and helping him sit.  
  
“Don’t lie down; you need to hydrate.”  
  
Sherlock brought him a litre bottle of chilled smartwater.  
  
“Massage works the muscles and improves the blood flow. The claims of removing toxins are spurious, but release of tension does introduce certain stored chemicals into the bloodstream, and it’s good to help the kidneys flush them out. Drink all of this, slowly.”  
  
John did as he was asked, staring at Sherlock. Who was this man? Was this standard fare for all his clients, just another ordinary massage provided in the life of this high-class call boy? Did it mean nothing to him, less important than having breakfast in a restaurant? Sherlock returned his gaze, his eyes glittering emerald in the afternoon sun, his expression neutral.  
  
“After an experience like that, I recommend a nap to allow your body to heal and process.”  
  
“What time is it?”  
  
“Four o’clock.”  
  
“That was...two hours?”  
  
“Two and a half.”  
  
“How long is a standard massage?”  
  
“Fifty minutes.”  
  
John blinked.  
  
“You had a lot of tension built up. Now, slide under the covers and get some rest.”  
  
“Sherlock?”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“Would you lie with me?” It was almost a whisper.  
  
Something shifted on Sherlock’s face. He seemed...glad.  
  
“It would be my pleasure.”  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The brother of a lifelong friend of mine once gave me a massage at an outdoor concert. I’ve never felt anything like it, and I think the difference was that he used his whole hand, palm too. Boy did I want to have sex with him after that, but I guess it wasn’t socially feasible since his sister was my best friend...or he missed the cues, or I wasn’t his type, or something.  
>   
> I had the dig-under-the-skull therapy once. It was for an excrutiating hour. The therapist told me a long, harrowing story of his origin country—I think it was Liberia? It’s been years—to distract me from the really quite difficult pain. I wish I could remember his tale; it was intense, very personal, and I felt very honored that he shared it with me. My head felt so very light after he broke up that knot. I wish I could go see him again, some 20 years later, as I am back to daily migraines.  
>   
> I have experienced the “chakra” energy or whatever it was that happened, when a massage therapist “brought energy” to the top of my head and “pulled it out” and held it there, not touching me. It was very strange and interesting and I have no idea what actually happened, as I am a rationalist and no longer believe, necessarily, in chakras and the kundalini. However, I also realize there are plenty of things we have not yet discovered, and far be it from me to deny my own experience.  
>   
> As for whether or not massage releases “toxins” or “stored chemicals” or anything else—I am not a doctor. I do know that I seem to like hydrating after massages. *shrug*  
>   
> The music is Robert Rich’s gorgeous [_Trances/Drones_](http://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Fen.wikipedia.org%2Fwiki%2FTrances%2FDrones&sa=D&sntz=1&usg=AFQjCNEWNLlnweBq-uVcACC7sBjH0wRQLg). You can hear one of the tracks on YouTube here: ["Cave Paintings"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GppVF1pWGR4) I highly recommend it: it is beautiful, haunting, eerie, soothing. Maybe give the YouTube track a try and see if it’s your cup of tea.  
> 


	4. Monday (cont.): St Regis, Castro, Welcome Home, Cliff's Variety, St Regis

  
_  
_  
John was wrapped around a warm, soft body. He felt his hard cock pressed against the warmth and hummed in appreciation. It had been so long...he began to grind up against his lover slowly at first, speeding up quickly as delicious sensations radiated from the friction on his cock to the rest of his body.  
  
“Yes,” he said softly, kissing the downy neck he was nuzzled against. “God, yes.”  
  
As he humped more rigorously, he panted and felt himself waking up. Which led to his opening his eyes to the back of a head covered in loose, silky black curls. Who…? He looked down and saw that he was grinding while wearing his briefs, up against a back clad in black cotton.  
  
And then he was all-the-way awake, and he backed up on the bed very quickly.  
  
“Sherlock, oh god, I’m so sorry. I...shit.”  
  
He rolled off the bed and fled into the loo, closing the door too loudly.  
  
“John?”  
  


* * *

  
_18:15_  
  
John emerged a while later. His face was bright red, which was only partially from scrubbing.  
  
“John, it’s no—”  
  
“We are _not._  Discussing. This.”  
  
“But—”  
  
“NO.”  
  
Sherlock sat back on the bed and suppressed a smile. He’d never had a client who was so sex-negative. Come to think of it, he’d never had a client like John, full-stop.  
  
He’d never had one with PTSD.  
  
He’d never had one who had been shot through by a bullet.  
  
He’d never had one as delightfully naïve. Really, that display in Good Vibrations had been precious.  
  
He’d never had one as tormented by inner demons.  
  
He’d never had one that made Sherlock want to touch him, as often and in as many places as possible.  
  
He hadn’t let on, but he’d been astonished to see the time that had elapsed when the massage was finished. Giving massages was a necessary evil. They were expected of Companions, even though the hotel retained a perfectly good massage therapy staff (well, nowhere near as good as Sherlock, of course, but that was to be expected). Massages were tedious and tiring. All bodies were essentially the same; the minor variations in configuration or strength of vocal reaction were not enough to hold his interest.  
  
Massaging John, though, had been different. When he touched John’s skin, he had felt a resonance within himself; a pleasure radiating back up his hands and into his chest. That had never happened before. He had lost himself in the process, becoming urgently invested in making John feel better.  
  
The strangest thing had been what had happened with John’s head. Of course Sherlock knew the theory behind chakras and the absurd concept of “awakening the kundalini” that all massage therapists talked about. But he could not deny that when he held his hands on the crown of John’s head, he felt a sensation in his fingers; a kind of tingling. The (tiny) fanciful part of his brain fashioned it into the idea that he had felt energy there, coming from John. Derisible, of course. But even when he had held his hands slightly away, with no physical contact, he had still felt the sensation. It vanished when he stepped away.  
  
John was different; that was for certain. Educated, highly ethical, and handsome in an unexpected way that John himself clearly did not realize. All of Sherlock’s other clients had been good-looking, or at least had been very sure that they were, even if all evidence was otherwise.  
  
All of Sherlock’s other clients had taken advantage of the offered sexual services within fifteen minutes of entering their rooms.  
  
John was a puzzle. And it made Sherlock’s heart sing. It had been _years_  since anything interesting had happened to him. He had been so bored for so long, but he hadn’t noticed it consciously, convincing himself that the mild challenge of deducing each client’s needs and providing for those needs without being asked was enough to satisfy his hungry mind.  
  
If only he hadn’t had to come to America in the first place. But that was not worth dwelling upon.  
  
“Fine, no discussion. Then what would you like to do next?” Sherlock was amused to find that he had absolutely no idea what John would say, and he watched him with interest.  
  
John’s face took on a sort of defensive cast, and he stood up straight.  
  
“I want to go to the Castro District.”  
  
“The Castro?”  
  
“Yes, that’s the gay place you have here, isn’t it?”  
  
Sherlock smirked. “Yes, that is indeed our ‘gay place.’”  
  
“Okay, then, let’s go. Take me there. Let me just put on some clothes.”  
  


* * *

  
_18:45_  
  
A half-hour later, John and Sherlock emerged from the Muni tunnel into bright afternoon sunlight. John looked around for a moment; then he spied the enormous rainbow flag flying proudly at the corner of Castro and Market.  
  
“My god.”  
  
“Yes, that’s our oversized declaration of aggressive sexual freedom.”  
  
They walked to stand on the corner of the sidewalk, and John stared up at the flag. He didn’t take his eyes from it. He stood there for a few minutes, silent.  
  
“I’m not gay, you know,” he finally said.  
  
Sherlock was surprised to see that John’s eyes were wet.  
  
“I’m bi, actually. That’s a real thing.”  
  
“Yes, I know it is.”  
  
“But I’ve had it easy. Bisexuals can ‘pass;’ they don’t have to come out, and I never have; it’s just never been necessary. But my sister. Even in this day and age, you wouldn’t believe what my sister’s gone through. Or maybe you would.” John turned to look up at Sherlock.  
  
“The things people did right here...the bravery they showed, the work they did carving out a little community here in this one part of the world...it saved my sister’s life, is what it did. I know things haven’t been easy for the gay community in San Francisco, much as the world likes to think it’s one big gay city. And I know a bit about the devastation that AIDS visited on this neighborhood. This flag…” John’s voice broke a little. “This flag means more to me than I can ever tell you.”  
  
Sherlock was astonished. John smiled a bit, and wiped under his eyes with his knuckles.  
  
“So, what’s good to eat around here?”  
  
Sherlock took them down Castro a few blocks. John looked up at the sign hanging over the sidewalk.  
  
“‘Welcome Home,’” he read out loud from the hand-painted placard that included a rainbow under the lettering. “How appropriate.”  
  
They walked into the small café, and Sherlock sat in a standard chair so that John could sit on the funky padded bench surrounded by colourful throw pillows. They ordered a meal—John got another malt—and settled back, sipping ice water out of small glasses.  
  
“This is rather nice,” John said.  
  
“Yes, I like it well enough. I’ve never brought a client here. They always want to go to the famous places, like Orphan Andy’s or Moby Dick. Tedious. This is a bit understated for standard tastes.”  
  
“But you brought me here.”  
  
“It seemed fitting.”  
  
“It’s just my speed.” John smiled. “Sherlock, can I ask you something that is probably quite rude?”  
  
“Please.”  
  
“How did you become a Companion?”  
  
“Ah, the Pygmalion question. Well, I needed money for cocaine, and I was already sucking off dealers, and I’d gotten quite good at it. I found out about Companions when one john took me to the Saint Regis, and I learned that Companions make quite a lot of money. However, I wasn’t aware that there was a strict policy on drug use. It seemed like a better situation, though, and a close friend agreed, so I cleaned up my act, came back and applied, and I was accepted.”  
  
John looked taken aback.  
  
“You did cocaine?”  
  
“Yes, John, don’t all prostitutes do drugs? That’s what you think I am, don’t you? A common prostitute?”  
  
“I don’t—”  
  
“Don’t deny it, John. It’s obvious. What I do disgusts you.”  
  
John blinked at him, mouth slightly agape.  
  
Sherlock hadn’t meant to say any of that. That wasn’t his standard answer for how he’d gotten into the Companion business; usually he said something much more palatable along the lines of wanting to work in the concierge business, of having excellent diplomatic skills, of enjoying meeting new people. What on earth had possessed him?  
  
Their food was delivered. John looked down at his deluxe hamburger. He was quiet so long that Sherlock took a bite of salad just to have something to do.  
  
“You’re right, Sherlock. You’re right that I have been focussed on the sexual aspect of your job. It’s not for the reason you think, though. I’m not a prude. And I’m not disgusted, well, not by that, anyway. I am very sorry to hear that you were involved in cocaine, however. Are you still?”  
  
“No, actually. Not for over a year.”  
  
“Well, I’m glad to hear that, but of course I wouldn’t believe you unless I saw a series of negative drug tests.”  
  
“I have paperwork—”  
  
“Tests that I myself administered. There are ways to get around drug tests.”  
  
Wordlessly, Sherlock held out his left arm. He rolled up the sleeve. His skin showed pinpricks of old white scars inside the elbow. He repeated the gesture with his right arm.  
  
“Would you like to inspect my ankles, as well?”  
  
John sighed.  
  
“Feel free to borrow an otoscope at the conference and examine my nostrils.”  
  
“That’s not necessary.”  
  
“How can you tell a junkie is lying? His mouth is moving.”  
  
John rubbed his hands over his face.  
  
“I’m sorry. I’ll take you at your word. You haven’t demonstrated any behaviors of being high or being in withdrawal while I’ve been with you.”  
  
Sherlock looked away, towards the glass door leading to the street. He felt hurt. It was strange. He had drummed the ability to feel hurt out of himself years ago.  
  
“I don’t know how this deteriorated so quickly,” John said quietly.  
  
“It’s because of you, John.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“You unnerve me. You make me say things I don’t _ever_  say. I don’t understand you; I can’t predict you. You are a conundrum.”  
  
“I...apologize?”  
  
“Irrelevant. You are the most interesting person I’ve ever met. If my feelings get hurt, that’s on me; I’m not supposed to have feelings.”  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“Emotion is a barrier to clear thought. Caring is not an advantage.”  
  
“Who told you that?”  
  
“My brother, and he was correct. It’s the cornerstone of my approach to life. And you are muddying it, John.”  
  
John took a bite of his rapidly cooling burger.  
  
“Mm, this probably was good about ten minutes ago.”  
  
“Let’s move on to a different topic. Why did you become a doctor?”  
  
“Ah, tit for tat, eh? Why did I become a doctor...Okay, if we’re going for bald truths here, it was to get away from my sister. She went to the local college, and the only justification for me not going there as well was if I needed a school with a specialty. I liked biology, so I chose medical school.”  
  
“What do you usually tell people?”  
  
“That I wanted to help people...which is also true, but not the whole truth.”  
  
Sherlock smiled, and the uncomfortable spell seemed to be broken.  
  


* * *

  
_20:00_  
  
When they stepped back out on the sidewalk, dusk had fallen. Sherlock linked John’s hand in his elbow and turned to the right. As they strolled, John’s head swivelled as he watched men in shorts and sleeveless vests parade by, with the occasional mullet-headed or crew-cut woman interspersed.  
  
“This is fantastic,” he murmured.  
  
“Now this _is_  a typical destination, but you really should come here once if you’re going to visit the Castro.” Sherlock steered them into Cliff’s Variety, a busy hardware store.  
  
“Why is this hardware shop so crowded?”  
  
“Hardware can be used for many things, John.” He led them over to an aisle with big bolts of chains in a display on the wall. A bearded man, dressed entirely in leather, was holding a length of silvery chain out, discussing something seriously with an older woman in a flowered dress.  
  
John watched them for a minute, then looked up at Sherlock in disbelief.  
  
“Chains? As in ‘ _whips_  and chains’?” he whispered.  
  
“They’re usually used as suspension tools, not for flagellation, but yes, you have the general idea.”  
  
John tried to smother a laugh.  
  
“You’re kidding me.”  
  
“Not at all. The equipment here is just as good as that at Mister S, if a little more do-it-yourself, and it’s about a tenth of the price.”  
  
“That’s absurd!”  
  
“Welcome, again, to San Francisco.” Sherlock reached around John’s waist and gave him a one-armed hug. It didn’t occur to him that he had never spontaneously hugged a client before.  
  
They left the hardware store and meandered to the other side of the street. John bought a pair of rainbow cufflinks in a novelty shop; then they purchased fragrant cookies at a hole-in-the-wall cookie stand.  
  
“This neighborhood has gone rather commercial, unfortunately, but that’s San Francisco. ‘The things that spell San Francisco to me are disappearing fast...’”  
  
“What’s that from?”  
  
“ _Vertigo_ , one of the quintessential San Franciscan films. Of which there are many.”  
  
“Oh, I think I remember that one. Hitchcock, was it?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  


* * *

  
_21:00_  
  
When they returned to the room, John flopped down on the couch.  
  
“That was very educational, Sherlock. Thank you.”  
  
Sherlock chuckled and opened the full-size refrigerator.  
  
“Chilled water, tea, or something a bit stronger?”  
  
“Oh, something a bit stronger, I think.”  
  
“Try this.” Sherlock opened a can and poured the contents into a tall glass. He handed it to John, who sipped it.  
  
“Ah, very nice. What is it?”  
  
“From a local brewery. It’s called ‘Back in Black’. Advertised as a rebellion against the British IPA.”  
  
John grinned as Sherlock settled beside him with a bottle of water.  
  
“Would you like to watch a movie?”  
  
“Actually, yeah. I don’t suppose we have _Vertigo_  on the system, do we?”  
  
“Funny you should mention it. The hotel keeps all clichéd San Francisco movies on the pay-per-view.”  
  
“Oi!”  
  
Sherlock smiled. “I’ll watch it with you nonetheless. Would you like that foot rub?”  
  
“Do you mind?”  
  
“It would be my pleasure.”  
  


* * *

  
_23:00_  
  
John sighed as the movie ended. “I hadn’t remembered how eerie that movie was. And that music...extraordinary.”  
  
“It does weave a sort of otherworldly spell.”  
  
John was stretched out, back against one arm of the couch, his feet solidly in Sherlock’s lap. Sherlock had been rubbing said feet for the duration of the film. John’s socks lay carelessly on the floor by the couch.  
  
“John.” Sherlock stroked slowly up one of John’s arches with his thumb. “Why are you so averse to sex?”  
  
John took a long pull from his beer. It was his third, and he was feeling slightly buzzed.  
  
“I’m not averse to sex, per se. I’ve had quite a lot of it, actually. They used to call me ‘Three Continents Watson’ in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.”  
  
John stretched his arms high above his head and rotated his shoulders. Sherlock ran a finger between each of John’s toes.  
  
“Sex was always something fun; something you just did. I’ve been with women and men—more women than men, for what it’s worth. Never had a serious relationship, never wanted one.  
  
“Something changed, after I got shot. I’ve tried going on dates, the last six months. Never got past a dinner and a walk home. I don’t know. I just...being shot at, having that, I guess, violation of my body, as they say in physical therapy—it makes me feel a bit different about having somebody touch me.”  
  
“You’re clearly touch-starved. I’ve been trying to alleviate that.”  
  
“I noticed. Thanks for that, by the way. It’s been nice. For some reason, being touched by you isn’t abhorrent.”  
  
“Glad to hear it.”  
  
“No, I mean...sorry, it’s just that most people...a hand on my arm in the clinic, a brush of the shoulder in the hall...it just feels wrong, somehow. Makes me feel like I need to protect myself, keep myself from harm.”  
  
John stared out the window at the city lights, half-obscured by the ever-present night fog. “When you touch me, it’s different.”  
  
“Different how?”  
  
“I dunno. It feels…” _Like coming home._  “...not dangerous.”  
  
“Then I’ll keep doing it, shall I?”  
  
“I’d like that.”  
  
“But no sex.”  
  
“Nope. Not ready for that.”  
  
“Understood.”  
  
“Keep rubbing my feet, though?”  
  
“It would be my pleasure.”  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John’s comment about bisexuals not having to come out is consistent with my own personal experience. I do not intend any bisexual erasure, nor do I intend to imply anything about anyone else’s bisexual experience. It’s fiction, darlings.  
>   
> The Welcome Home is a real place, as is Hot Cookie (the hole-in-the-wall cookie shop). [Mr S](http://www.mr-s-leather.com/) is about as real as it gets. The ale John drinks is from 21st Amendment, where I used to eat lunch when I worked in Silicon Valley North (SOMA).  
>   
>  _Vertigo_ ’s music is by the incomparable Bernard Herrmann, and it makes the whole movie that much spookier (and I’m not just talking about the somewhat well-known theme song). If you haven’t seen it, I don’t want to give anything away, but if you’re in the right frame of mind to forgive any datedness, it can really hit you as very gothic and eerie and haunting. It certainly is a part of the overall feeling of San Francisco for me.


	5. Tuesday: Lotus Garden, St Regis

  
_Tuesday, 12:00_  
  
“Kosher vegetarian Chinese food?” John read out loud, peering up at the sign.  
  
“Only in San Francisco, John. Actually, there are several similar restaurants in New York City as well, but this is a quintessential San Francisco dining experience. I take all my clients here.”  
  
“My, don’t I feel special.” But John gave Sherlock a cocky grin and began climbing the steep stairs of the narrow entrance.  
  
John had slept late, basking in the warmth of Sherlock’s body while Sherlock caught up on scientific journal articles through his UCSF library account on his iPad. When asleep, John snuggled, which Sherlock found he enjoyed—another first for a client experience—and Sherlock had even dozed off for a couple of hours himself. When John was up and dressed, Sherlock had suggested skipping breakfast and walking to Chinatown for a proper luncheon.  
  
At the top of the stairs, John stopped and gaped at the Buddhist temple located up another short staircase. The sweet smell of incense and the soft ring of ritual chimes drifted towards them on tendrils of sensation from the quiet service being held in the dark room. Sherlock put his hand on John’s back and guided him to the right, to the entrance to the dining room. The hostess seated them at a small table near the entrance.  
  
“This menu says that a rabbi actually inspects this restaurant to verify that it is kosher?”  
  
“Yes indeed,” Sherlock answered, tucking his cloth napkin into his lap.  
  
“That’s quite something.”  
  
“And rather unnecessary, given that none of their ingredients fall under either _milchig_  or _fleishig_  categories, but then _kashrut_  isn’t really about logic, is it?”  
  
“I’m not quite sure what you just said, but I’m certain you’re right.” John smiled, and Sherlock marvelled at this unexpected man who didn’t react to him in any way he was familiar with. He smiled back, and they just gazed at each other for a moment.  
  
“Would you like tea?” A young woman started pouring Oolong into their handleless cups before they could respond. “Ready to order?”  
  
“We need a few minutes, thank you,” Sherlock murmured.  
  
John opened his menu and looked baffled.  
  
“Allow me to order for us both?”  
  
“Yes, thank you, that’d be brilliant,” John said.  
  
Sherlock signalled the server back. “We’ll start with the wonton soup for two. Then we’ll have the sweet and sour pork, mu shu chicken, and some rice.”  
  
The server took their menus and moved away.  
  
“You have to order rice?”  
  
“Yes, it’s very odd, it doesn’t come automatically in California.”  
  
“Wait a sec, didn’t you just order a bunch of meat?”  
  
“Meat substitutes, my friend. The wontons are filled with a delightful mix of chopped walnuts, water chestnuts, and mushrooms. Much nicer than the usual meatballs; no wondering what parts of an animal you’re eating. The ‘pork’ is wheat gluten, and the ‘chicken’ is a combination of soy protein and tapioca starch.”  
  
“Well then! This will definitely be a unique experience.”  
  
John burned his mouth sipping from the too-hot tea when a commotion sounded in the stairway they had just climbed up. Sherlock clapped his hands in delight.  
  
“Ah, I forgot it was this time of year! You’re in for a treat, John.”  
  
John had gone still, watching the entrance to the room. There was a lot of banging and shouting going on, and then a giant red dragon head appeared next to the hostess’ station. The restaurant patrons began to laugh and clap as an entire dragon slowly wound into the room, right past Sherlock and John’s table, colorful segments seemingly floating upon human legs. Sherlock saw John roll his eyes and loosen his shoulders, and after a moment he began to smile, watching the procession that wove through the tables with whistles and bells. Sherlock was aware, though, that from the first loud sound, John was tensed as though ready to leap into action. Nothing to be done about it; he hadn’t realized a street dragon would invade their restaurant.  
  
Finally, the last of the dragon was winding away down the stairs as their soup was served. Sherlock became aware of firecrackers going off outside along with a large and noisy parade; he watched John surreptitiously, but John didn’t twitch once at any of the loud bangs.  
  
After slurping up a large noodle, John at Sherlock with surprise. “This is good!”  
  
“I told you it would be!”  
  
When the main dishes came, Sherlock served both their plates. Usually, Sherlock refrained from eating while entertaining clients, but the Lotus Garden, and John, were worth making an exception. He pulled his disposable chopsticks from their paper envelope and broke them apart, scraping them together to remove any splinters.  
  
“No forks?”  
  
“We can request one if you insist, but surely John, you know how to use chopsticks?”  
  
“Afraid I never had the need.”  
  
“It’s simple; let me teach you.” Sherlock opened John’s chopsticks for him and shifted his chair closer to John’s.  
  
“One will be your base. Hold it against your finger like this, and don’t move it. Now this one will be your manipulator; grasp it between your forefinger and thumb and use it to pinch.”  
  
Sherlock’s hands were light over John’s, guiding him. He had to consciously move them away once John grasped a piece of sweet and sour gluten. The morsel almost made it all the way to John’s mouth before it dropped in his lap.  
  
“No harm done. Here, allow me.” Sherlock snagged it with his own chopsticks and brought it to John’s lips. John ate it from the chopsticks while gazing at Sherlock, who coughed a bit and moved his chair back to its original position.  
  
“Okay, try again. Now you’ll see why oriental rice is sticky.”  
  
Eventually John got the hang of it, though he grumbled that a fork would have been loads easier.  
  
“Can I ask you a truly personal question?”  
  
“You may ask, John. I don’t promise to answer.”  
  
John lowered his voice conspiratorially. “How did you get off the cocaine?”  
  
“Ah. Well. As I said, it became a matter of necessity, once I decided to become a Companion. I never used it for the high; I only used it to quiet my mind.”  
  
“ _Quiet_  your mind? It usually has the opposite effect on people.”  
  
“Neuro-typical brains do indeed respond to cocaine as a stimulant. I find that it quiets my racing thoughts and allows me to focus and become more effective. It’s similar to the reverse calming effect of Ritalin on ADD sufferers’ brains.”  
  
“Regardless, it _is_  addictive; what did you do to stop using?” John bit off an end of a mu shu pancake and managed not to drip plum sauce on himself.  
  
“I had been, once, to the local Zen Center. I knew of meditation, of course, but never had thought it would be achievable with my neurological makeup. I was lucky; the day I happened to return to the Center, for unrelated reasons, the greeter was a deceptively mousey-seeming practitioner who has the perseverance of a grandmaster chess instructor combined with the discipline of a Dominatrix whip wielder. Molly managed to teach me how to meditate the way a river creates a canyon: through incessant, unrelenting pressure. Of course, she would be appalled to hear it described that way; she would say that she helped me get out of my own way.”  
  
“Hold on.” John gestured at Sherlock with his chopsticks. “You stopped a cocaine addiction by simply meditating?”  
  
“There was nothing simple about it, John, but yes, anyone with a strong mind could do it. With the right motivation and a little mental elbow grease, there’s nothing to it.”  
  
“I should write a paper on you.”  
  
“I’d rather you didn’t.”  
  
John looked at Sherlock thoughtfully.  
  
“You’re really quite extraordinary.”  
  
No one had ever complimented Sherlock like this. He didn’t know exactly what to do with it.  
  
“Are you going to eat that last bit of ‘pork’?”  
  
“Yes I am, and I’ll thank you to keep your chopsticks to yourself.” John thwacked his own against Sherlock’s, grabbed at the cube in question, and promptly dropped it on the floor.  
  
“There. Now no one will have it. Satisfied?”  
  
“Quite,” Sherlock said, grinning.  
  


* * *

  
_12:45_  
  
Sherlock heard it a block away, but somehow he didn’t piece together the impact it would have. They were chatting about the number of tattoos on the street busker they’d just passed when a racket that was different from the Chinatown parade became evident. There was shouting, and a loud rhythmic banging, and drumming, and whistles, and all of it sounded angry. As they rounded the corner to the block with the hotel’s entrance, Sherlock groaned.  
  
“What is it?”  
  
“Another union protest. They’re ramping up to one every week. It’s utterly boring. Neither side will make any real concessions at the table and this just drags on and on.”  
  
As they walked closer, Sherlock saw that there was a larger-than-usual protest crowd blocking the little driveway where hotel guests could leave their cars for the valet.  
  
“Okay, John, we’ll just walk quickly and they shouldn’t bother us.” Sherlock glanced down and noticed that John looked pale and very determined. He put a steadying hand on John’s back.  
  
As they entered the crowd, a young man popped up in front of them.  
  
“FUR IS MURDER!”  
  
A can of red paint was splashed onto John. The protesters cheered loudly.  
  
John froze.  
  
“Wiggins! Angela! Clear a path!” Sherlock shouted as he shoved an elbow into the assailant’s throat. Almost immediately, a large Filipino man in a uniform suit and a short woman in a matching suit were at John’s side, using physical force to get Sherlock and his charge through the glass doors and into the lobby. The sound of the protest was immediately muted, and Sherlock was now able to hear John panting with a sort of pained vocalization. The door guards helped them to the elevator.  
  
“That’ll be all, thank you, do call the police,” Sherlock ordered quickly as the doors shut. John’s knees gave out and he collapsed onto the elevator carpet.  
  
“John. John, you’re all right. Come on, let’s get you to the room.”  
  
Sherlock tucked his shoulder under John’s good arm and pulled him to his feet. They stumbled to the room and into the bathroom, where Sherlock placed John on the closed toilet lid.  
  
“John. What’s going on? It was red paint, John. You’re going to be okay.”  
  
By now, John was shivering uncontrollably. His gaze was unfocused, and he was hyperventilating.  
  
“John, you’re having a panic attack. I’m going to get you out of these clothes and get the paint off you. You need to focus on me. You’re here in a hotel room in San Francisco and you’re completely safe.” Sherlock felt as though he was babbling; it was clear that John wasn’t really hearing what he was saying, and he realized he was saying it as much to keep himself calm as to impart any information to John. Swiftly, he pulled John’s t-shirt over his head and dropped it to the tile floor. He had to lift John bodily to stand him up and remove his jeans and pants, then clumsily sit him back on the toilet and crouch to pull off the trainers and socks.  
  
Eventually, he managed to settle John in the tub with hot water filling it. He stepped into the tub in front of John, heedless of his Farragamos, and bent down to hold John’s face firmly in both hands.  
  
“You’ve got to stop breathing like that. Follow me. Four counts in, eight counts out.” He began counting out loud for John, who finally looked him in the eyes and appeared to be making an effort to slow down his panting.  
  
The tub filled and Sherlock shut off the taps. He stepped out and shrugged off his ruined shoes, stripped off his shirt, and climbed back in, sitting on the edge of the tub.  
  
“In, two, three, four...now out, two, three…”  
  
As he counted, he dipped a flannel in the water and gently began to wipe the paint from John’s skin. It was on his face, his neck, his collarbone...it was in his hair, but Sherlock decided to save that for last. Now John’s eyes didn’t leave his; John was staring at him as though to even blink would spell disaster.  
  
When the worst of the paint was off, Sherlock stood up and guided John to scoot up. He resettled behind John, wrapping his arms carefully around John’s torso, not tightly, and not around his arms. John’s breathing was more normal now, so he simply began murmuring in John’s ear:  
  
“You’re in a hotel in San Francisco, and you’re with me. You’re safe. Nothing is going to hurt you here. It’s all over now.”  
  
Over and over, Sherlock said orienting words in a mantra-like chant. He had to drain and fill the tub twice to keep the water hot before John finally stopped shaking and fell back against him, limp and exhausted.  
  
Once John was in bed, hair washed free of paint, dry and warm and curled tightly around Sherlock, breathing softly in a light sleep, it was Sherlock’s turn to shake.  
  


* * *

  
_14:00_  
  
_Where did I go wrong?_  Sherlock thought. _How did I not see that coming? I knew he had PTSD; stupid, stupid! Must analyze, rectify and categorize._  
  
_John slept late: clearly the first time he’s had enough sleep in months, maybe since he was shot. Woke the first night here after three hours’ sleep by a nightmare; slept well when I joined him. Was able to sleep almost seven hours the second night with me in the bed. Clearly needs a warm body to stave off the nightmares. Maybe; two nights do not constitute a trend. Cannot tell without more data; merely anecdotal._  
  
_John engaged in sleep-frottage yesterday, awoke aroused. Says he has not been with anyone since the shooting. Simple reaction to a warm body in the bed? Likely; again, cannot be sure without more data._  
  
_He didn’t mention the medical convention this morning, even though this is the second day; seems to have made his peace with not attending. Didn’t glance at the conference room hallway as we went to lunch._  
  
_Seemed completely calm during lunch. Wait. Was calm until the Chinese dragon appeared. Fear of dragons? Ridiculous. Fear of more people in the room? No, the room was reasonably crowded when we sat down, and the street on the way in was more so. What happened when the dragon came in? Whistles, bells, shouting. Noise._ Noise _, especially sharp noises, can trigger PTSD. As the dragon left, he started to relax, but firecrackers started going off outside._  
  
_The panic attack was already starting in him; the physical symptoms simply hadn’t manifested. Seemed calm when we were walking back. Was he calm?_ Think _, what was his body language? Damn, I didn’t look at him. His voice was calm, but that means nothing. We turned the corner and he saw the crowd. Ah, the noise profile shifted to_ different _loud and intermittent sounds. His shoulders tensed. He was primed. And then that bloody child attacked him, red paint no less, a clear blood look-alike trigger._  
  
_I should have been able to head it off. Should I have? Yes. If I had been thinking clearly, the whistles of the dragon would have been more than sufficient warning that I should remove him from the area. Why wasn’t I thinking clearly? We were talking, I explained the menu, I ordered...he looked at me with complete trust when I ordered. No one looks at me with complete trust. No one looks at me with even partial trust. Then the chopsticks...his hands were so warm. I just wanted to hold onto them, to forget about lunch. Why? I hate touching people. I don’t hate touching John. Why? Damnit, I’m_ distracted _again._ John _is distracting._ Why?  
  
Sherlock was breathing deeply, slowly, using a meditation rhythm even though he hadn’t intended to head for that mental space yet. The breathing stopped the shaking, which was simply adrenaline at having to care for someone in a panic attack, a new and unrehearsed Companion requirement.  
  
_Think. John is triggered by loud, intermittent noises. John is also triggered by complete idiots throwing red paint on him. Both of these things are likely to continue happening at the front door; must keep John from the front door. Must keep John from any other loud, intermittent noises. Good thing we’re not in a_ city _where loud, intermittent noises happen randomly._    
  
Sherlock sighed and wrapped his arms a bit tighter around John, who snuffled in his sleep.  
  
_Do not want John triggered again. Why? Not good for a client to have panic attacks. True, but that’s not it. John isn’t a client. Wait. John_ is _a client. What is wrong with me? John is a client, his account has already paid me double my usual gratuity; must provide him with excellent service. How? John does not want sex. All clients want sex. How am I supposed to provide service without sex?_  
  
_John doesn’t ask for anything: no concierge service, no room service, no service of any kind. I am not earning my fee; I am not earning my gratuity. Pressure John into sex? That would lead to another panic attack. John cannot have another panic attack._  
  
_I’m thinking in circles. This is very inconvenient._  
  
Sherlock mentally bundled the entire problem of John as the Reluctant Client into a ball and carried it to the Sorting Room in his Mind Palace, shoved it in without looking, and slammed shut the door. He proceeded to match his already rhythmic breathing with the frontal lobe clearing that he had learned was counter-intuitively useful in providing focus for the rest of his non-meditative, waking hours. Slowly he let the flurry of stray thoughts that appeared gently waft to the floor of the palace like so many autumn leaves, packing down to create a rich imagined loam on the spongy floor of his brain.  
  


* * *

  
_16:00_  
  
John woke with a start. For a half-minute his heart pounded, his breathing was fast, and he was completely alert and looking for the danger. Then he realized that he was inches from Sherlock, whose relaxed face and shut eyelids were golden in the afternoon sun blazing through the large windows. He shut his eyes and waited for the pain of the jolt of adrenaline to squeeze his heart as his system reacted to not using the extra energy.  
  
“You’re awake,” Sherlock said in a low, soft voice without opening his eyes.  
  
“So are you, it seems.”  
  
“Quite.” Sherlock smiled a little.  
  
A deep need arose in John on the heels of the wave of adrenaline.  
  
“Sherlock, let me know I’m alive. Make me come.”  
  
Sherlock’s eyes flew open.  
  
“Please. I’m begging you. I can’t take this any more. Please—” Even as John was saying this, Sherlock’s palm was pressing firmly against his hardening cock. He’d been bundled into bed fresh out of the shower; Sherlock was touching his bare skin.  
  
Sherlock wrapped his hand fully around John’s cock and began to stroke, making use of the slip-slide of foreskin that was still loose. John clutched Sherlock’s shoulders and cried out wordlessly, small sharp cries that increased in volume as his cock hardened completely. And suddenly he was coming, too soon, too hard, letting out a sob as he shot hot fluid on Sherlock’s hand and his own belly.  
  
“Fuck, fuck, I’m sorry, shit…”  
  
“It’s okay, John. It’s been a while. It’s okay. Did it feel good?”  
  
John let out a bitter laugh. “I don’t know; it was over so fast, I barely felt it!”  
  
Sherlock kissed his forehead. “No worries. We can do a _lot_  more of that, and I can guarantee you’ll feel all of it.”  
  
John raised his head from where he’d been staring at his nearly clear semen. He looked into Sherlock’s eyes, which were more green than blue in this light and had sparkles of gold.  
  
“I’m sorry. That wasn’t very consensual.”  
  
“That was entirely consensual, and a long time coming, I think.”  
  
“Pun intended.”  
  
“What pun?”  
  
John reached behind himself and fumbled for a tissue box he knew was on the table next to his side of the bed. _His side_ ; he had a _side_ , when had that happened? He mopped up the mess.  
  
“You’d better go wash your hands to be entirely safe. You don’t have any cuts, do you? A bit late for me to be asking.”  
  
“No cuts. Don’t worry, I was fully cognizant of what I was doing. You did not take advantage of me.” Sherlock grinned, rolled over, and hopped out of bed, striding into the loo. John heard the water running. He flopped onto his back and sighed, rubbing his face. What was he thinking?  
  
“You weren’t thinking. That was the first time you haven’t thought before you acted since you came here. It was magnificent.” Sherlock bounced back into bed, sitting next to him cross-legged. John realized that Sherlock was wearing jeans.  
  
“You’re wearing jeans. In bed. And I’m completely naked. My god, could I be any creepier?”  
  
“John! Stop it!” Sherlock snapped at him.  
  
John looked up, startled.  
  
“Listen to me. You had a panic attack. Do you remember? A protester threw red paint on you. I brought you in here and cleaned you off, and I _put you to bed naked_. I disrobed you, and it was necessary. You asking me to get you off was the first thing this week that has made _sense_  to me. You don’t get to try to turn it into something ugly. I am honored that you let me help you, both times.”  
  
“Both…?”  
  
Sherlock sighed. “In the tub and in the bed. All right? I’m here, and I want to help. You’ve been carrying too heavy a load all by yourself for too long. _You don’t have to keep doing this alone._ ”  
  
“Right, I can let you, a stranger I just met, see me at my worst, and I can use you for sexual services, and then in a few days I can go home, good as new, is that it?”  
  
“No, that’s not it!” _Wait, what am I saying? I can’t promise him anything! This is not how I talk to clients, I know better!_  
  
They stared at each other, at an impasse.  
  
“Look, I can’t have this...conversation, or whatever this is, like this.” John got out of bed and pulled some clean pants from a drawer in the credenza. “There. Now, I think we need some tea. Then we can continue discussing this.”  
  
“I’ll call for—”  
  
“We have a perfectly good kettle right here, I’m going to make us some tea, no need to be calling room service.”  
  
“It’s a _coffee machine_ , John. With _bagged tea_.”  
  
“Well, I’m sure this...’Tazo’ tea will be just fine,” John said, plugging in the little coffee machine next to the in-room sink. He turned around to see Sherlock making a face and laughed. “I think you’ll live.”  
  
“Barely.”  
  
A few minutes later they were sat on the couch, tea cups in hand. Sherlock had pulled John’s feet into his lap.  
  
“You don’t have to give me a foot rub!”  
  
“I might as well; we’re right here, and besides, I’m only doing it with one hand. Oh, this tea without milk is disgusting. I wish you would let me call the kitchen.”  
  
“ _No_. Now, where were we?”  
  
“I was being completely logical, and you were refusing to listen to me.”  
  
“Oh yes, that’s absolutely where we were.” John rolled his eyes. He sipped his tea, thinking. “Okay, you do have one point.”  
  
“Of course I do.”  
  
“Would you _please_. You have one point, which is that I am here in San Francisco and this is sort of a week out of time, an unexpected holiday. Why shouldn’t it be a time of healing? Perhaps I _can_  only open up to a stranger.” John was gazing out the window and missed the way Sherlock’s eye twitched when he said the word “stranger”. “I certainly can’t open up to my therapist, and there’s no one that I’m close to in London. Or anywhere, for that matter.”  
  
“What about your sister?” _What are you saying?_ Sherlock thought. _Why did you say that? You don’t want him to go to his sister! Stop acting so irrationally!_  
  
“Yeah, I’m not remotely close to her. Even if I was, I couldn’t talk to her about any of this.” John waved a hand vaguely at himself, hoping it indicated PTSD, panic attacks, nightmares and sexual dysfunction without further explanation.  
  
Sherlock set down his cup on the table next to them and clutched John’s ankles.  
  
“Then _let me be your therapist_. Work out your problems with me.” He was staring at John with unnerving intensity. Fog was blowing past the window, and the last few rays of sunlight flickered at the sides of Sherlock’s eyes, making them seem lit from behind. It was an uncanny effect, and John felt his breath catch in his chest.  
  
“Okay. I will,” he said, holding Sherlock’s gaze. “I will.”  
  
As the fog finally covered the windows completely, throwing the room into an early twilight, Sherlock stood from the couch and dropped his trousers, stepping easily out of them. He held a hand out to John.  
  
“We can do plenty of talking. But right now, I think you need a different kind of therapy.”  
  
John looked at Sherlock’s outstretched hand, trying to think.  
  
“Stop thinking!” Sherlock literally stomped his foot. “Trust me! Have I steered you wrong yet?”  
  
“In the two whole days I’ve known you? Not once.”  
  
“Well then.” Sherlock smiled, and John took a deep breath, and then he grasped Sherlock’s hand. He awkwardly march-stepped out of his pants as he moved to the bed. Once they were settled back on the fitted sheet, Sherlock kicked the comforter and top sheet out of the way.  
  
“Now. In the immediate vicinity, we have…” Sherlock pulled out the larger-than-customary bedside drawer. “Condoms; several kinds of lube—all latex-friendly; gloves; and dental dams. If you’ll give me a minute, I can pop into the next room and get the deluxe toy bag.”  
  
“Uh...that’s probably enough to be starting with, don’t you think?”  
  
Sherlock gave John a wicked grin. “Depends on how you want to start; but yes, it will do for now.”  
  
“I...actually don’t know how I want to start. I don’t really feel sexy right now. Sex- _ual_. I mean, I don’t…” He trailed off as Sherlock put his hands on his shoulders and leaned in close to his left ear.  
  
“I think I can take care of that. Just relax and let this happen,” Sherlock said in a deep, quiet voice that made goosebumps rise across John’s skin. He pulled back a bit and met John’s lips in a kiss, his tongue licking its way into John’s mouth. John opened to him and Sherlock’s tongue slipped across his own, warm and soft, thick and wet. John let out a small, muffled moan.  
  
Sherlock was on his knees, and he pulled John up against him, and they were touching, skin to skin, no clothing barriers. With Sherlock kneeling, their height differential wasn’t as great, but Sherlock still had to bend his head to ravish John’s mouth. John was thrilled to feel Sherlock’s hard length pressed against his belly, just above his own cock, which was raising itself with interest. Sherlock pressed one large hand against the back of John’s head and wrapped one long arm around John’s back. John clutched at Sherlock, trying not to lose his balance. He began to stroke Sherlock’s back with his fingertips, marvelling at how very long his torso was.  
  
Then he dared to reach down, past Sherlock’s coccyx, to cup Sherlock’s arse cheeks briefly; shyly, he moved his hands back up. Sherlock let go of John and pushed John’s hands back down, and John squeezed taut buttocks and felt his cock become fully erect, bucking up against the soft skin of Sherlock’s balls.  
  
Sherlock started kissing John’s neck, and John realized that Sherlock was chanting “John, John, John,” almost sub-audibly, in-between kisses. Daringly, he bent his head and mouthed at Sherlock’s left trapezius muscle, then bit down lightly.  
  
Sherlock growled softly.  
  
John pulled back. “That okay?”  
  
“That is definitely okay. Just don’t break the skin.”  
  
“Obviously.” John went back to nibbling his way up Sherlock’s neck, ending with sucking on Sherlock’s earlobe and letting him feel a bit of tooth.  
  
Sherlock reached down to palm John’s arse, jerking him close again. He reached between them to adjust John’s cock so it was fully upright, pushing against Sherlock’s pubic bone.  
  
“I want you to fuck me,” Sherlock murmured into John’s ear.  
  
“I don’t think I’m ready for that.”  
  
“Okay, I can work with that.” He moved John so that he was lying on his back, propped against a pile of pillows, and magically, a condom appeared in his hand. John saw the wrapper fluttering to the floor. Then the condom was being rolled onto John— _by Sherlock’s mouth_.  
  
“God, I thought only prostitutes did that,” John whimpered. Sherlock raised his eyebrows and gave him a sharp look.  
  
“Oh shit, sorry!”  
  
John saw that Sherlock was grinning around his mouthful of penis and closed his eyes, unable to think of much of anything beyond the warmth engulfing him. Then Sherlock began to use his tongue, and John groaned. John glanced down and saw that Sherlock was using his fingers to hold something against him below his balls; must be a dental dam, he thought. _So thorough. Why is he holding that there..._  
  
He soon learned the purpose of the dental dam when he found that Sherlock was able to keep most of John’s cock in his mouth and still reach down with his fantastically long tongue to lick at the seam between John’s balls.  
  
“Fuck!”  
  
Sherlock responded with a hum that made John’s hips jerk.  
  
“Sorry, sorry...I’ll try not to do that…”  
  
Sherlock pulled all the way off and John wanted to cry.  
  
“What?” John asked.  
  
“John. I am more than capable of taking care of myself. _Let yourself go_. Stop worrying. Focus on what you are feeling.” Sherlock took John’s entire length back in and began fondling his balls with one hand. John flung his arm over his eyes and started moaning again. He’d always wanted to be loud, but because of that one time with a girlfriend when his noises had brought her mother to the room, he’d taught himself to be quiet. He guessed that in this place, he could stop worrying about it.  
  
He realized his hips were moving again, just slightly, but he tried to do as Sherlock said and trust him to stop John from choking him if necessary. Then he felt Sherlock’s fingers on his right nipple and again, he looked down his body. Sherlock was pinching and rolling and oh _fuck_  that was good. John had always had sensitive nipples, but his lovers had never been particularly interested in them. A good hard pinch had him bucking into Sherlock’s mouth in earnest, and Sherlock _chuckled_  around his cock, the bastard, and slung a forearm over his hips, pinning him to the bed.  
  
“Fuck, fuck, fuck…”  
  
John reached one hand into Sherlock’s hair, playing with the loose curls. Sherlock began to deep-throat him at the same time as moving to the other nipple, flicking it with a fingernail.  
  
“God, yes, Sherlock, oh _god_  yes, shit, I’m going to come, it’s too soon, it feels too good…”  
  
Sherlock made an appreciative noise, which was mostly cut off by the thick member in his throat; he pinched the nipple and _swallowed_  at the same time and John felt all control rush out of his limbs and out his cock into Sherlock’s mouth, pulsing, pulsing. He realized he was shouting and scrabbling at the sheets with one hand, clutching Sherlock’s hair with the other.  
  
“Shit, I’m sorry,” he said as he released his grip, “oh god that feels so fucking good oh my fucking god oh I’m floating, Sherlock, I’m floating.”  
  
Sherlock drew off slowly, squeezing with his tongue as he went, pulling two more aftershocks out of John before he finally lifted his head, grinning. He rubbed his thumbs gently over John’s hard nipples.  
  
“Ack, too sensitive!”  
  
“Sorry.” Sherlock leaned up and kissed near each tender nub instead. Then he lay down on his side next to John and looked over at him, head propped on his elbow. His lips were red and swollen.  
  
“Did you feel that?”  
  
“Huh?” John blinked at Sherlock.  
  
“A reference to earlier, when you said you hadn’t felt the other orgasm. Never mind, just being clever.”  
  
“That was fantastic, Sherlock.”  
  
“I know.” Sherlock mitigated the arrogance of that statement by stroking his hand through John’s hair; somehow it worked. John closed his eyes as his breathing slowly returned to normal.  
  
When his brain was fully back online, he looked up at Sherlock. “Wait, you didn’t...do you want me to…?”  
  
“I think not, we’ll save it. We’ve got a whole night ahead of us.”  
  
“Maybe we do, but I’m forty years old; don’t think I’ll be doing much more myself. I might as well take care of you.”  
  
“Aside from how _delightfully_  eager you sound, I do think we can coax a bit more out of you tonight. It’s been months, John. It’s all saved up.”  
  
“Sorry! I do want to, you know.”  
  
Sherlock shook his head to show John that he’d meant it as a joke.  
  
“I like how optimistic you are,” John conceded. “I just think you should adjust your expectations.”  
  
“We’ll see. Here, let’s get you cleaned up.” Sherlock rolled the condom off John and ducked into the loo, coming back with one of the improbably soft flannels damp with warm water. He sponged John off and dropped the flannel on the floor; then he leaned over and gave John a gentle, closed-mouth kiss. He finished the cleanup by drying John with a few tissues.  
  
“It was white, by the way.”  
  
“What was white?”  
  
“Your ejaculate, this time. In case you were worried.”  
  
“Oh! Oh, I was a bit, actually. Was thinking it’s time for a prostate check. Well, it still is, but I guess it was just a factor of not having come in so long.”  
  
“How long has it been?”  
  
“Let’s see, I was wounded thirteen months ago...hadn’t gotten any for a few weeks before that, so, probably fourteen months?”  
  
“Wait a minute. That’s how long it’s been since you had sex, right?”  
  
“Right.”  
  
“But—”  
  
“ _Any_  kind of sex.”  
  
Sherlock stared at him. “That’s highly unusual. A healthy male under the age of sixty will at the very least ejaculate in his sleep at least once a week.”  
  
“Yes, a _healthy_  male.”  
  
“You haven’t masturbated in over a year?”  
  
“Haven’t felt the urge.” John watched Sherlock’s face closely for pity. Instead he seemed to go oddly blank.  
  
“That’s understandable, in the circumstances. I am even more honored that you have chosen to share yourself with me now.”  
  
John smiled a little. It really was easier to allow himself to be vulnerable with a stranger—with this stranger, anyway.  
  
A stranger who felt decidedly safe.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There really was a Lotus Garden on Grant Street in Chinatown, but it [went defunct in 1999](http://www.jweekly.com/article/full/11127/san-francisco-s-only-kosher-chinese-restaurant-closes/). I’m pretending it’s still around in 2015 because it was wonderful and I can make believe. I don’t remember the mu shu, but the wonton soup and the sweet and sour “pork” were just as I described. Also, when I was there once with my then-boyfriend, we really did have a street dragon dance into the restaurant. It was fantastic. However, that usually occurs at Chinese New Year, and this is set in June, so, authorial license.  
>   
> There really were protests outside of hotels for a while, notably sometime around 2006 or 2007 when I was working in the city; if I recall correctly, the cleaning services were protesting not having a working contract. They would chant and march and use whistles and drums and shout, and I can’t imagine that it didn’t hurt the hotels’ business at least a bit. Someone throwing paint and yelling about fur doesn’t really fit, but then people often glom onto one protest with their own unrelated causes.  
>   
> I know nothing, nor did I do any research, about how often a “healthy male under the age of 60” ejaculates, either on purpose or in sleep, though I do remember reading that Gandhi, who tried very hard to force his body not to ejaculate, was furious at himself for a few wet dreams (over which, if you ask me, he had no control and therefore should not have held himself accountable). I also know nothing, nor did I do any research, about what it means if someone’s ejaculate is clear, although I did ask my boyfriend who speculated along with me that that probably indicates little to no sperm. I do not know if that indicates a prostate exam should be done—probably unrelated, actually—and I do not know the age at which regular prostate exams usually start, though I would imagine it’s around middle age, and I also imagine that John, as a doctor, would start them earlier.  
>   
> It’s probably unusual for someone to be _so_  careful as to use a dental dam for licking balls/perineum, but I think it’s a good idea. Remember: I am not a doctor! But as far as I know, it’s pretty unlikely that you would get HIV from that activity unless there was a cut on your tongue and/or the skin being licked. HOWEVER! There are _plenty_  of other STDs you could pick up or even transmit as the licker. Play safe! Also, plastic wrap is much easier to obtain and wrangle (lots more acreage to work with; just mark it so you know which side is whose side).  
>   
> Seriously, let me say it again: please play safe! I want all you lovely readers to live long and prosper and not have to deal with disease or have to tell potential partners about disease and, if it’s your thing, get to play with lots of other people without having to worry. As a sex worker, Sherlock knows the deal and knows how to take care of himself! Okay, end of lecture


	6. Tuesday (cont.): St Regis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been working, off and on, on this story for about six months. I was quite ill and it has helped in my healing process. It means a great deal to me.
> 
> It's hard to describe how much your comments and kudos have touched me. I've been carrying them around in a warm little nest in my heart all day today, pulling them out and treasuring each one and rubbing my cheek against them and cuddling them and just grinning my ass off. Having written this on a couch, alone, often in the dark, with only my beloved cousin to cheer me on from across the continent (thank goth for her!!!), was one thing, but sharing it with all of you and hearing from you has been spectacular. Thank you so much for reading and responding. I hope you continue to enjoy. I am hoping to get the rest of what is already written posted this weekend. Fair warning; the last two chapters are not written! We'll all just have to see what happens together! (I always _think_ I know what these two will get up to but they often have their own plans...)

  
_Tuesday, 18:00_  
  
John sat up and stretched, checking to see if he felt different now that he had had two orgasms in two hours after months of nothing. He supposed he felt more relaxed: a little tired, maybe.  
  
Sherlock appeared in the doorway between their rooms, holding a large leather carryall. He strode to the bed and plopped it at the end. It was heavy enough to make John bounce a bit.  
  
“All right, this is my toy bag. Let’s see if anything in here interests you.”  
  
The bed began to shake, and a soft rumble filled the room. John heard a banging sound and glanced over to see the metal slats of the draw-curtain hitting the windows.  
  
“John! Earthquake. Get in the doorway.” Sherlock grabbed his hand and yanked him off the bed. John almost tripped over his feet as Sherlock dragged him into the doorway of the loo, positioning him with his back to one of the jambs as Sherlock wedged himself against the other. The shaking continued for what seemed like full minutes to John. The entire hotel was shifting back and forth like an unsteady skater on melting ice. John clutched hard at Sherlock’s forearms and wished he had clothes on. If he was going to die, he really didn’t want to die naked.  
  
The shaking stopped. The blinds banged a few more times against the windows in decreasing arcs.  
  
“Sorry about that. It’s good practice to always get to the doorway so that when the big one hits, you’re in the right place.”  
  
“The ‘big one’? Are you saying _that_  wasn’t a ‘big one’?”  
  
“That was about a five point three, maybe three seconds. Hang on, I need to log onto u-s-g-s dot gov.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“I try to always add data to their citizen earthquake log. Won’t take a moment.”  
  
“Sherlock, what just happened? That was horrible! Why are you being so casual?”  
  
“John,” Sherlock said patiently as he tapped at his tablet, “that was an earthquake. I said that already, please try to pay attention.”  
  
“Yes I _got_  that it was an earthquake, and a bloody scary one, too. Are you people insane? You live out here with this sort of thing? The whole fucking building was moving!”  
  
Sherlock glanced up at John, then studied him more carefully.  
  
“John, did I not give you the earthquake safety lecture when you arrived?”  
  
“No, you most certainly did _not_. I forgot you people have those bloody things out here.”  
  
“I’m so sorry. That’s usually one of the first things I do, when people get here. An earthquake can happen at any time; you need to get into a doorway if you can. If you can’t, find a table or a desk to duck under. If you are inside, stay inside; if you are outside, try to stay away from tall buildings.”  
  
John was panting a little, raking his hands through his hair.  
  
“Okay. Do you think you could give me the earthquake lecture now?”  
  
Sherlock blinked. “That was it.”  
  
“ _What_  was it?”  
  
“That was the earthquake lecture. They happen; doorways, desk, stay inside, no tall buildings.”  
  
“ _That’s_  your whole earthquake lecture?!”  
  
“Yes. Really, John; it’s no big deal. This was a nice one; should ease some of the pressure on the San Andreas a bit. Much better than the stupid twos that no one can feel unless they’re in Daly City. Still can’t understand why anyone built houses out there.” Sherlock went back to tapping at his tablet.  
  
John marched straight to the coffee machine and started pouring fresh water in.  
  
“I always heard Californians were crazy. Now I think I know why.”  
  
“Did that really bother you, John?”  
  
“Yes, Sherlock, that really bothered me.” He turned around to see Sherlock staring at him with narrowed eyes, as though he was studying an unusual lab animal. He turned back to the coffee maker, pulled a clean mug from the cabinet, and placed it with a decided _thunk_  on the tiny countertop.  
  
“That bothered you, but you’re not having any symptoms of a panic attack. Interesting.”  
  
“Yes, I’m very interesting, Sherlock. Glad I can entertain you.” As John ripped open a new tea bag—”Awake” flavor didn’t seem very apropos, so he selected a “Zen” flavor—Sherlock’s words finally sunk in.  
  
“I’m _not_  having a panic attack.”  
  
“Yes, John, I just said that. _Please_  try to listen. Here, do you want to see this website? It’s very engaging. They already have 200 responses.”  
  
John wandered over to where Sherlock was sitting on the bed and looked at the colorful map, with its zones and dots, without taking it in.  
  
“Why am I not having a panic attack? That was a frightening event. Yech, this tea has spearmint in it.” John took the cup back to the sink and poured the tea out, rinsing it with water for good measure.  
  
“Your PTSD seems to be triggered by loud, sharp, intermittent noises. PTSD is usually fairly specifically keyed. The earthquake was a completely new experience; nothing about it was remotely similar to your initiating event, so it stands to reason that you wouldn’t have a panic attack.”  
  
“Hang on. How do you know so much about my PTSD?”  
  
“I do have eyes and ears, John. I heard what you said in your nightmare; I saw what set you off today. Of course I can’t know all the triggers yet, but I am quite sure that loud, sharp noises are one. Having red paint thrown on you is another.”  
  
“Hold on. You heard what I said in my nightmare?”  
  
“Yes, the first night you were here, you were awakened by a nightmare. You were quite loud before you woke up; it was very easy to understand what you were saying.” Sherlock looked up from the map, his face relaxed and open. He began to frown when he saw that John’s jaw was clenched and his hands were in fists. He set down the tablet.  
  
“Is this a problem?”  
  
“You’re bloody right it’s a problem. That’s fucking private, that is.”  
  
“John,” Sherlock said softly, standing up. “You were shouting. I was in the next room. I couldn’t help but hear it. But that’s a good thing; it means I can help you.”  
  
“I don’t remember asking for your help.” John was getting dressed.  
  
“We agreed—”  
  
“Well, I’m _un_ -agreeing. This has gone too far. I need some air.” John left the room and slammed the door.  
  
“Bollocks!” Sherlock threw on his jeans and a t-shirt, grabbed his room key, and sprinted down the hall to the service elevator. It opened immediately, and he made it downstairs in time to see John come out of the main elevator lobby. John didn’t spot him; first he looked toward the front doors, where the protest was in full swing; then he turned and headed for the back of the hotel. Sherlock followed at a distance.  
  
When he got to the street, John stopped, breathing hard. Sherlock watched from just inside the hotel, through the glass door. John looked around, then stared down at the pavement. After a moment, he seemed to come to a decision, and he walked out of the alley, turned left on 3rd Street, and headed for Market. Sherlock followed, a half-block behind.  
  
When John got to Market, Sherlock saw one of the more aggressive panhandlers walk up to him and begin haranguing him. John shook his head at the man and set off into the Market Street crowds. He began to cross at 4th, with the light, when a turning Muni bus nearly clipped him and honked loudly. Sherlock saw John startle and hurry across the rest of the intersection at the back of the crossing crowd. The Muni bus completed the turn and hit a cab that was stopped in the left lane. More honking ensued; the cab driver got out and started yelling at the Muni driver, who also got out, along with some of the Muni passengers. One of the passengers drew a handgun and shot into the air. Sherlock saw John stagger up against the side of the Old Navy store, and Sherlock broke into a run. When he reached John, he wrapped an arm around John’s side, holding up his other arm for a cab, which glided to a stop right in front of them on Market. He bundled John into the cab and convinced the driver to take them the mere three blocks by handing him a $100 bill and telling him to keep the change.  
  
Using his room key, Sherlock took them in the back entrance and guided John into an elevator. John leaned against the wall, panting, shaking, and not looking at Sherlock.  
  
As they walked down the hall, Sherlock snagged a passing staff member and quietly ordered an expensive Russian vodka and a full tea service to be sent to their room. He opened the door and led John to the couch, then sat next to him, holding him as he shook. A few minutes passed before a quiet knock came; Sherlock rolled the service tray in himself, poured a half-cup of tea for John, and filled the rest with the liquor.  
  
John took the cup but handed it back as soon as he smelled the alcohol.  
  
“N-no.”  
  
“Yes, John; it’s okay to take something to steady your nerves.”  
  
“I won’t u-use a-alcohol.” John was shivering so much that his teeth were chattering.  
  
“I don’t have any Valium on hand; this is the best I can do.”  
“I can get through this.”  
  
“I have no doubt that you can, but this will help.”  
  
John gave up and drank the contents of the cup quickly, coughing afterwards. Sherlock poured him another cup, making it just plain tea this time. He set it on the table in front of John and went back to holding him.  
  
John put his head down on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock could feel his t-shirt getting wet, but John made no sound.  
  
Well after the tea was cold, John took a deep breath and wiped his cheeks with a palm.  
  
“John. If you need space, tell me,” Sherlock said gently. “I’ll give it to you. I’ll give you anything you ask. But right now, I think you have to accept that you’re in an unfamiliar place, and you’ve been triggered twice in one day. You need to take care of yourself, and I think right now, that means you need to stay in this room.”  
  
John looked at him and nodded, fresh tears leaking from his eyes. He wiped them away angrily.  
  
“Come on, let’s get you back in bed. If you want me to leave you alone, I will. But if you’ll let me, I’d like to hold you for a while.”  
  
John nodded again and let Sherlock undress them both down to pants and then help him into bed. Sherlock moved the forgotten carryall to the floor, lay down by John’s side, and pulled him into a hug, stroking John’s hair. Sherlock looked out the windows, where lights were just starting to come on in the nearby skyscrapers, shining fuzzily through the fog. He thought about how far out of his depth he was. For the first time in over a year, he thought of Mycroft and wished he could ask his brother what to do. Mycroft had always understood emotional issues so much better than he.  
  


* * *

  
_21:00_  
  
John woke to the feeling of strong arms surrounding him and a warm body against his. He sighed and snuggled in closer, feeling safe. Slowly, he opened his eyes; inches from his face, he saw Sherlock gazing unfocused over his shoulder, presumably looking out the window. He let the awareness of the hour before he’d fallen asleep steal into his consciousness, accepting the fact of a second panic attack, accepting that he’d been foolish to run out into the street just because of a little disagreement. At least, it seemed little now; at the time, he’d felt betrayed by Sherlock’s nonchalance.  
  
Sherlock seemed unaware of his regained consciousness, so he took the time to study the face before him. Verdigris eyes that shone even in the dim night lights reflected from the fog; sharp cheekbones; lush eyebrows; and a strong, masculine nose perched above the most beautiful cupid’s bow lips he’d ever seen on a man—or a woman, for that matter. This face, that he’d never seen before Sunday, seemed somehow familiar now. John thought about how the person in front of him had saved him from nightmares, had held him in bed without pressure or question again and again, had rescued him from two panic attacks in public and helped him through the aftermath without judgement or disgust. Was two days enough time to feel this close to someone? Perhaps; how long did it take to recognize a soulmate? Was this just to be expected of the services of a Companion? Somehow John thought not.  
  
“You’re awake.” Sherlock’s gaze dropped to meet John’s eyes, and John smiled happily. The corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirked a bit in return; he looked pleased but a bit bewildered.  
  
“How do you feel?”  
  
“Why are you doing all this for me?” John countered.  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“Surely this isn’t customary treatment for one of your clients.” John cursed himself for his conversational misstep. He might as well have said “Do you love me?” He guessed “Let me take you away from all this!” was coming next if he didn’t get hold of himself.  
  
“This isn’t customary behavior for one of my clients.”  
  
“What is customary?”  
  
“Usually they are fucking me, or I am blowing them, multiple times a day. On the rare occasion of a woman client, sometimes I am fucking _them_  multiple times a day. But even then it’s more common for me to be performing cunnilingus or to be getting pegged.”  
  
John rolled over to face the window. He didn’t want Sherlock to see the flare of anger he felt at his new friend having been so used. Of course it wasn’t his place to judge, or even have an opinion on Sherlock’s vocation. He took a few deep breaths and schooled his features before rolling over again.  
  
“You don’t approve.”  
  
So much for that attempt to fool the man.  
  
“No, I don’t. I don’t like to hear about people using you.”  
  
“Then don’t ask.”  
  
John sighed and rolled to his back, a compromise, and stared up at the ceiling. “How did that go sour so quickly,” he asked the plaster above him.  
  
“John, I need you to promise me something.”  
  
“Hm?”  
  
“I need you to...well. While you are here and under my care, I need you to promise not to go haring off again where I can’t protect you.”  
  
“I was a soldier, Sherlock. I don’t need protection.”  
  
“Wrong. Right now you are suffering from a medical condition that can make you helpless in public, and you are not even attempting to manage it. While you are with me, I need you to stay with me so that I can keep you safe.”  
  
“Again, _soldier_.”  
  
“ _Doctor_ , John!” Sherlock shouted suddenly. John jumped up from the bed to cover his alarm and sat down on the couch, glaring.  
  
“You are a doctor,” Sherlock said in a gentler tone, sitting up in the bed. “You know how to treat someone with panic attacks; you know the needs of a patient with PTSD. You refuse to see yourself, however, as a patient. You are doing yourself a disservice. If a patient of yours was having panic attacks and insisted on refusing any medication and on living life as though everything was as normal, what would you say to that patient?”  
  
John sighed. “I’d say he needed to face reality, to take steps to treat his condition as legitimately as any physical disability.”  
  
“Exactly. So why can’t you treat yourself with the same compassion you would treat any of your patients?”  
  
John stared at Sherlock for a while before finally looking down at the carpet. He simply had no answer.  
  
Slowly, Sherlock stood and came to sit beside him. “You have some sort of mental block when it comes to yourself. You expect far more of yourself than is rational or healthy. For some reason, you think that you do not have the right to be sick. And until you understand why that is, and can fix it, then you need to let me be your doctor and look after you in the manner you would do for any of your patients.”  
  
“For what, four more days? And then what, Sherlock? Are you going to come back to London with me and look after me there?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
John looked up at him, shocked. Sherlock held his eyes, somewhat defiantly.  
  
“You’re going to just pick up and leave here with a total stranger.”  
  
“I think you’ll find, John, that whatever else we are, we are no longer strangers.”  
  
“And where will you live?”  
  
“I can find my own accommodations.”  
  
“What will you live on?”  
  
“John, will you just stop being boring for a moment and make me this promise?”  
  
“What promise?” John’s head was spinning.  
  
“That you’ll let me care for you until you are back on your feet.”  
  
“All right! Fine!”  
  
“Say it.”  
  
“I will let you care for me ‘til I am back on my feet. Of which I will be the judge.”  
  
Sherlock snorted but didn’t argue. He took John’s hands in his.  
  
“I’ve never met anyone like you, John. I need some time to understand you. I do not think I can do it within the confines of this week.”  
  
Somehow, this sounded dreadfully romantic to John, and he squeezed Sherlock’s hands with his own.  
  
“This has been a bit much of a day. Do you think we could go to bed early?”  
  
“Whatever you need, John.”  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know very little about PTSD. Apologies if I’ve gotten it dreadfully wrong.


	7. Wednesday: St Regis, Zen Center, St Regis

  
_Wednesday, 01:00_  
  
“ _GET DOWN! GET DOWN! GET YOUR FUCKING HEAD DOWN! RIGHT THE FUCK NOW!_ ”  
  
“John!”  
  
John was thrashing, tangled in the sheets. The ambient night lights from the city gave Sherlock only glimpses of John’s face: focused, determined. He moved to the bed and tried to take hold of John’s arms; he had just enough time to feel that the sheets were sweat-soaked before John threw him off with such force that he ended up on the floor.  
  
“John!” Sherlock shouted. “Wake up! You are in San Francisco!”  
  
“No…” Suddenly John was whimpering. Sherlock had never heard such a hopeless sound. “No. No. Fuck. I got to you in time. Fuck!” And then he was shouting again, becoming more helplessly tangled in the sheets, fighting with all his might.  
  
“Let me go! _LET ME GO!_ ”  
  
Sherlock leapt up, strode to the door, and flipped on the overhead lights. Abruptly, John stopped moving, blinking awake, panting heavily.  
  
“John,” Sherlock said quietly. “You are in San Francisco, at the Saint Regis hotel. You are with me, Sherlock. You are safe. You are tangled in the sheets. Take a few breaths and let me help you get untangled.”  
  
John stared at Sherlock blankly. Sherlock came to the bed and, moving slowly and deliberately, began to pull the wet sheets away from John, unwrapping him. John lay limp, allowing it, breathing like someone who had run a mile.  
  
When John was uncovered, Sherlock sat next to him on the bed and took his hands.  
  
“Where are you now?”  
  
“Here, with you,” John said dazedly.  
  
“You had another nightmare. I am going to get you a glass of water. Try to breathe more slowly.”  
  
Sherlock wet a washcloth, and while John drank the water, he gently wiped the sweat from John’s forehead and neck. John set the glass down on the table by the bed and buried his face in his hands.  
  
“None of that, now. You had a rough day yesterday; this is to be expected.”  
  
“I hate being this way. I hate having you see me be this way.”  
  
Sherlock climbed back on the bed and simply gathered John into his arms. They sat like that for a long time. Eventually, Sherlock got up and ripped the soiled sheets off the bed. He turned off the lights and helped John to lie down. Then he pulled the duvet over them both, and settled John back against him.  
  


* * *

  
_04:00_  
  
Sherlock slipped out of a very extended meditative state and looked down at John, who was breathing quietly and evenly in blessedly untroubled sleep.  
  
_I don’t know how to fix this._  
  
_I need to know how to fix this._  
  
_Why is this broken ex-soldier so important to me?_  
  
_I’ve never met anyone so intriguing. I’ve never met anyone who...well...who_ liked _me before. Not since Redbeard. I don’t know why, but this John is important. Not this_ john _. He’s never been a_ john _, not after the first five minutes. How did I know that? I don’t know. Must figure that out later. But it’s not just how he makes me feel. And think of that...he makes me_ feel _. Unprecedented. But there’s something else there. Something that tells me that this is the first important person I’ve ever met. And he’s about to slip away from this world, and no one else sees it...I must make certain that does not happen._  
  
_What did I agree to? Did I promise him I would go back to London? I cannot go back to London! I swore to myself...what about...how will I...and oh gods, the absolute endless taunting I will take from Mycroft, that sod. Why did I promise that? Because I could do nothing else. Because he must be protected at all costs; because I must not let him go back alone._  
  
_Because I cannot imagine being without him._  
  
_Absurd. I did not know him last week._  
  
_Irrelevant. What is, is. He is essential to me now; I have not uncovered the reasons, but that is the truth of it. I will do whatever it takes to stay by his side and keep him safe._  
  
_I suppose I am no longer a Companion; I am becoming a_ companion _. Ugh. Sentiment. Mycroft will be so disappointed. Well, that’s a silver lining._  
  
_I need to spend the next few hours becoming an expert on PTSD, night terrors, and anything else that is affecting my John’s psyche. I am out of my depth, but that will not be allowed to continue. I will become his healer. I am nothing; I am but a facilitator to whatever it is that he is to become. He is everything. Amusing that he does not know that. Thank the gods that I am clear-headed enough for us both._  
  


* * *

  
_07:00_  
  
John woke slowly. Faint sounds of city traffic filtered into the room. He kept his eyes shut and stretched luxuriously, feeling both his morning erection and his full bladder competing for his attention. Poor mindless penis; that was never a fair contest. He rolled to the side of the bed, opening his eyes to the soothing view of San Francisco fog wafting past the windows.  
  
“Good morning, John,” a ridiculously sexy voice murmured behind him. Oh yeah! Sherlock!  
  
“Good morning,” he mumbled back and trudged to the loo. His piss was surprisingly vigorous, to the point of being foamy. Ah, he hadn’t gone during the night. Usually he went at least once.  
  
As he was shaking off, he remembered what _had_  happened the night before.  
  
“Oh _god_.”  
  
“It was a perfectly reasonable reaction, John. Nothing to be embarrassed about,” drifted in from the next room.  
  
“So you keep telling me.” John put his hands on his hips and twisted as far as he could in one direction, then in the other, hearing his back pop. “Make us some coffee?”  
  
“Caffeine is contraindicated in your situation, John. How about some herbal tea.”  
  
“Herbal tea is contraindicated by my taste buds, Sherlock. How about you do your job and make me some damn coffee.”  
  
John brushed his teeth and washed his face before he noticed that there was utter silence in the room beyond. He wandered out, drying his face with a towel, to find Sherlock completely still on the bed, his eyes closed and his mouth shut in a thin line.  
  
“Sherlock? What’s wrong?”  
  
Sherlock took a deep breath.  
  
“Nothing, John. Nothing is wrong. I will do my job as your _Companion_  and make you some coffee now. _It would be my pleasure_. I am sorry for the delay.” Sherlock got up stiffly and, with an incredibly fake smile, proceeded to set up the coffee things.  
  
“What just happened?”  
  
“Nothing happened. I apologize; I forgot for a moment what my role is here. Perhaps after you have your coffee, I could offer you a blow job? Or maybe you’d like to fuck me instead. You have held out long enough, after all.”  
  
“Sherlock. Stop. What’s going on?” John took the coffee pot out of Sherlock’s hands, set it down, and gripped his forearms. “What did I say? I thought we were past that.”  
  
Sherlock closed his eyes and bit his lower lip.  
  
John thought back.  
  
“Oh shit. ‘Do your job.’ Christ, Sherlock. I’m so fucking sorry. That was meant to be sort of funny; you were getting all high and mighty about caffeine intake. I guess I got a little pissy. Sherlock. Sherlock! Look at me.”  
  
Sherlock opened his eyes a tiny bit.  
  
“Sherlock. You aren’t my Companion. I formally release you of all Companion duties. I don’t want you as a Companion. I never did. You are...you are extraordinary, you are amazing, I am so incredibly grateful that I met you, and I don’t know why you are hanging around me, and I don’t want you to leave. But I do not want you to be my Companion, or my concierge, or my call-boy, or whatever it is. I just want you to be my friend. Okay? You don’t owe me anything. You don’t have to stay. I just...I really like you. Please stay...just as Sherlock.”  
  
By now, Sherlock’s eyes were wide. He was staring at John as though he’d never seen him before, as though he’d never seen anything _like_  him before. His mouth was open a bit, seemingly in disbelief.  
  
Suddenly, Sherlock grabbed John and held him tightly, hugging him. John let out an “oof” and wrapped his arms around Sherlock in return, patting him awkwardly on the back.  
  
“John. John,” Sherlock murmured into John’s neck. “John.”  
  


* * *

  
_07:20_  
  
They had agreed that the atmosphere was had gotten a little intense, and they had dressed and headed out for coffee. Sherlock had steered them to a Peet’s coffee shop—”Ordinary, but at least it’s not Starbucks”—where John had gotten a medium drip and a chocolate croissant, and Sherlock had ordered some complicated chai concoction. They strolled to Market Street, where Sherlock stepped into the back of a sudden cab as though it had been waiting for him to appear.  
  
“I’m going to take you to the Zen Center, John. I want you to meet Molly.”  
  
When they arrived, John stared up at the four-story brick building.  
  
“ _This_  is the Zen Center?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“It looks like a primary school.”  
  
“Originally it was a shelter for female Jewish immigrants.”  
  
“Okay, then it looks like that.”  
  
Sherlock smiled enigmatically at John, took his hand, and led him to the front door. Inside, it was cool and not as tranquil as John expected; the entrance hall was filled with the sounds of comings and goings, quiet greetings, office work, and low telephone conversations.  
  
Sherlock strode up to the reception alcove. “Is Molly in?” he asked authoritatively but at a definitely muted level of Sherlockness.  
  
“Just a moment, Sherlock; I’ll get her.”  
  
He turned around and grinned at John with a kind of glee John hadn’t seen before. John swallowed. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.  
  
He had been expecting bald monks in saffron robes chanting in small bundles of righteousness on the floor; stern admonitions for “Quiet!”; chastisement for his lack of faith in Zen, or Buddhism, or God, or whatever it was these people believed in. He looked around the large room. A few people, dressed in ordinary clothing, stood together, holding coffee and chatting in low tones. Through the windows he could see a green, shady garden that had been hidden from the street. Once in a while, one or two people walked through the room in a decidedly unhurried fashion. It could almost be any ordinary office building, although he _could_  smell a hint of patchouli. Okay, any _Californian_  office building.  
  
His tension didn’t ease. This was an unfamiliar situation; he had to be ready for anything.  
  
Sherlock guided him, with a barely there hand on his lower back, to one of the sofas. Before John could sit completely, he was rising again as a young woman in a bright yellow dress came over to them. She was smiling in a way that lit up her eyes and immediately pulled Sherlock into a hug, which he inelegantly returned.  
  
“Sherlock!” she said in a way that seemed like it would have been very loud anywhere else. “It’s so very good to see you! Sit, sit!” She sat on his other side and took his hand. “How have you been?”  
  
“I’ve been well, Molly.” Sherlock was smiling, half fondly and half indulgently. “I’d like you to meet my partner, Doctor John Watson.”  
  
“Oh! Oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you there! Not that you aren’t worth seeing, not at all. I just haven’t seen Sherlock in a while so I was all eyes for him, like. Well! Partner! Does that mean you two are...I mean...is he one of your...no, no, you wouldn’t bring...Doctor! Are you an ‘ouch, I’m bleeding, fix it’ doctor or a ‘wow, look at all those equations, that’s really complicated’ doctor?”  
  
John stared at the young woman who poured forth an astonishing stream of bubbly, bumbling speech in a wonderfully stereotypical Northern California accent.  
  
“He’s a medical doctor, he was a client but now he’s not, and he’s both magnificent and fragile, so you can stop terrifying him now, Molly.”  
  
“Oi! I am not ‘fragile!’”  
  
Sherlock gave John a look of disbelief.  
  
Molly gave an embarrassed titter. “Right! Okay! So I suppose you want me to give him a tour then?”  
  
“Not at all. I brought him here so that he could meet the person who saved my life, especially since we’re about to leave San Francisco forever.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Which part are you confused about?”  
  
Molly blinked.  
  
“Surely you know you saved my life. John has asked me to move to London and I have accepted.”  
  
“Wait a minute, I didn’t exactly ask you…” protested John.  
  
“You’re moving to London?” exclaimed Molly.  
  
“Shhhh!” came from the reception alcove.  
  
There was the noise dictator, right on cue.  
  
“Molly, do you have some time to come discuss this with us next door?”  
  
Soon John found himself in a tiny tea house, sipping a bitter herbal creation at a low table. The saving grace was that the noise level was much more normal in this venue. Hip hop music was playing incongruously over the racket of chattering hipsters in the delicately appointed room.  
  
“You’re going back to London? But what about—”  
  
“Don’t worry about that, Molly. I’ve found my Polymnia and I’m following him. Isn’t that what you’ve always told me to do? Isn’t that what you’ve been training me to do for the past year?”  
  
“Yes, but—”  
  
“Be happy for me, Molly.” Sherlock’s tone was intense as he grabbed both her hands in his, leaning over the table. John watched, blowing on his steaming, noxious brew.  
  
Molly smiled, blinking back tears. “I am, of course. I am. And I am also acknowledging that I will be sad to know that you won’t be dropping by once in a while. Watching your journey has been so enriching for me, Sherlock. You are a beautiful soul.”  
  
John thought he could see Sherlock visibly refraining from rolling his eyes and hid a smile in an unpleasant gulp of tea.  
  
“John, Molly taught me to meditate. She taught me to value myself when I had given up. She was—” Sherlock hesitated for a fraction of a second. “She was the only one who saw me as a person instead of a dirty drug-addicted whore. Including myself. I owe my life to her.”  
  
John looked steadily into Molly’s eyes for longer than was socially comfortable and said, “Thank you.” She gave him a surprised smile.  
  
“You’re welcome.”  
  
“Okay, that’s more than enough sentiment for one morning. I would like you to give this to Susan; do not say whom it is from. Have a blessed life, Molly Hooper.” Sherlock handed Molly an envelope, stood gracefully, and headed for the door. John scrambled to catch up.  
  
“Nice to meet you, Molly.”  
  
“You too, John…”  
  
“What was in the envelope?” John asked when they were outside.  
  
“A cheque.” Sherlock refused to be prodded into saying more. Years later, John found out it was an anonymous money order for $100,000; “Susan” was Susan O’Connell, then-President of the board of the Zen Center.  
  


* * *

  
_14:00_  
  
When they got back to the hotel, Sherlock went first to his own room to change. He wandered into John’s room, dressed in fresh black trousers and a plum shirt.  
  
“That shirt’s too tight for you.”  
  
“I know,” Sherlock smirked.  
  
“We need to talk about this London thing.”  
  
“All right.” Sherlock sat on the sofa and looked up expectantly. “Yes?”  
  
John made an exasperated sound.  
  
“You can’t just _move_  to _London_!”  
  
“I think you’ll find that I can, John.”  
  
John sighed. “Yes, I’m sure that you _can_. And it’s no skin off my nose if you do; I’d be delighted to have you there. But we’re talking about you dropping your whole life here for someone you just met, that you don’t really know. You haven’t thought this through. It’s reckless.”  
  
Sherlock raised an eyebrow.  
  
“You’re quite wrong, John. I know you. You come from a lower-middle class family in Essex; your father was a violent alcoholic, and your mother died of illness, probably cancer, before you were twenty. You have an alcoholic sister who is recently divorced. You entered the Army in order to get your medical degree, as your family had no money for you to finish university; you could have been a surgeon but chose instead to work the front lines—I still don’t know if you were in Afghanistan or Iraq.  
  
“Invalided out, now doing locum work as we’ve discussed. You miss combat; you’re happiest when you’re facing danger, but your nerves are shot, so it’s a dilemma. You think there’s nothing left in life for you, but you believe suicide is a coward’s way out; another dilemma. You’ve never been in love. You believed in a god fervently as a child until the first time your father hit your mother. You hate violence but you won’t hesitate to use it when it is called for. You are instantly and fiercely loyal to those whom you deem worthy. You have achieved much in life in spite of rotten circumstances and have almost no self-esteem; you are devastatingly handsome in an unusual way and while you are not modest, you are also unaware of your attractiveness. You seem mild-mannered, ordinary, an idiot like the rest of the world, and yet I cannot predict a single thing that you have done since the moment I met you.”  
  
John gasped. “That’s amazing. How did you do that?”  
  
“And you are quite wrong in that I have thought rather a lot about this decision. This is not something I am doing lightly. I have learned all I can learn from being a Companion. San Francisco, while it is a pleasant enough city, is not my home; London is my home. I forsook it for specific reasons, which I shall reverse. It will be good to return. I do not understand this grip you have on me, and I would not let you leave my side until I have dissected and digested this phenomenon to its very atoms and understood it to its bones. No one has ever mattered to me before, and I must know why you are so important. It is imperative that I continue to study you,” _and keep you safe,_  Sherlock did not add.  
  
“...So I’m a project for you, am I?” John said, somewhat amused.  
  
“Yes, John, and a confounding one at that.”  
  
“Well, far be it from me to tell a grown man that he cannot move to London, I suppose.” John smiled at Sherlock, and Sherlock gave him a warm smile back.  
  
“Come here, John.” He pulled John, who had been standing listening to this monologue with some wonder, down onto his lap and into his arms and began to kiss him thoroughly. At first the kiss was aggressive, possessive; Sherlock was staking his claim, daring John to contradict his demand that they stay together. As John put up no resistance and instead molded himself against Sherlock, the kiss slid into something silkier, their lips skimming against each other as their tongues dipped inside the other’s mouth: tasting, flickering.  
  
John wiggled to adjust himself until he was straddling Sherlock, his groin pressed firmly against Sherlock’s. Sherlock felt John’s burgeoning erection pressing against his trouser front and put a broad hand warmly against John’s back, pulling him even closer. John hummed appreciatively into Sherlock’s mouth.  
  
John moved to lip at Sherlock’s earlobe. “I want you,” he murmured.  
  
“Yes, John.”  
  
“I want you in me.”  
  
Sherlock pulled back to look at John, startled. He simply could not anticipate this man.  
  
“You mean you want to fuck me.”  
  
“No,” John corrected, his eyelids heavy, pupils wide and dark. “I want you _in_  me. I want your cock _inside_  me.” When Sherlock didn’t respond, John enunciated, “I want your _penis_  in my _anus_.”  
  
“All _right_  John, I understand.”  
  
Sherlock slithered up off the couch, drawing John up with him into a standing embrace. “I think you’d better get undressed then, hadn’t you.”  
  
John taking off his clothes was not a terribly alluring sight. As Sherlock had stated moments before, John was not modest. Years in the Army had taken care of that. He removed each item matter-of-factly, dropping it in a chair behind him—and yet, as Sherlock watched, he couldn’t repress a shiver as John’s perfectly ordinary skin was revealed, inch by inch. His neck and forearms appeared first, still tanned from desert sun, when the jumper came off. His chest was next, with its fascinating scar, and its brown nipples which peaked instantly in the slightly chilled air of the room. His legs followed, which Sherlock had spent so long touching during the massage. And then...as John turned to put his pants on the chair...Sherlock realized he hadn’t yet seen John’s arse, not really. He’d had a glimpse when he’d helped John into the tub after the protest attack, but he had been so frightened, so focused on helping John that he could not call up even a hazy mental image. And so he stared. John’s buttocks were perfectly proportioned, lightly fuzzed with blond hair. He wanted so much to touch, to squeeze. Each lovely cheek would fit neatly into one of his hands.  
  
And then all that wonderful skin vanished as John hopped unceremoniously under the sheets.  
  
Sherlock sighed and began to undress himself. This, he would make seductive. He might not be a Companion any longer, but there was no reason to waste his talent. He licked his lips and was pleased to see John’s eyes snap to his tongue. He caught John’s gaze with his laser-like focus and began to unbutton his outrageous shirt, revealing his chest one tantalizing inch after another. John’s eyes were locked on Sherlock’s fingers. Slowly, smoothly, he pulled the shirt tails out of his trousers; then he slid the shirt off his shoulders, twirling a little in an exaggeratedly feminine move that made John laugh. Grinning, Sherlock flung the shirt over to John’s wardrobe chair.  
  
Then he moved to his trouser button, and they both stopped smiling. He continued to watch John, whose mouth had fallen slightly open, as he unzipped and palmed himself through his black silk pants, grinding into his own hand. John groaned. Good.  
  
Sherlock turned around to remove his trousers. This part was hard to do gracefully, and if he kept his client’s—er, _John’s_ —focus on his arse, any pragmatic moves were ignored. A moan of appreciation verified that this was no different than any other time he’d done a strip-tease. He straightened up as he kicked the trousers off his feet and caressed his arsecheeks, through the silk, as much for his own pleasure as for the visual effect. He purred a little and heard a gratifying choking sound come from behind him on the bed.  
  
Sherlock turned around, prowled over to the bed, pulled down the sheets, and positioned himself with a knee on either side of John’s hips, hands on the headboard.  
  
“How would you like to be warmed up, John?” he asked in his deepest, most alluring voice.  
  
John bit his lip and closed his eyes, tight. His face was red.  
  
“Come now, don’t be _shy_.”  
  
“Shit.”  
  
Sherlock looked down and saw that John was completely soft. What had he done wrong? Everything had seemed to be on track. _Not a problem_ , he reminded himself. _You’ve dealt with this plenty of times. John has PTSD; this is a common side-effect. The worst thing you can do is make it an issue._    
  
Sherlock shifted so that he was sitting beside John, his leg pressed warmly against John’s, and took John’s hand in his.  
  
“What’s going on, John?” he asked, fully prepared to not discuss this at the slightest hint of resistance.  
  
“I’m not sure,” John whispered as he dragged the sheet over himself. “I really wanted to do this. I’m sorry.”  
  
“Don’t be sorry,” Sherlock said softly. “Do you want to talk about this? Or do you want to just move on to other things?”  
  
John looked up at him. “I don’t know.”  
  
“Do you trust me?”  
  
John laughed a little. “Heaven help me, I do.”  
  
“I have an idea of what might help with your libido. But first I want to try something completely unrelated. Have you ever tried meditation, John?”  
  
“Sherlock, I don’t mean any offense to your religion or your spiritual belief system or whatever it is you have, but meditation just doesn’t work for me. I’ve tried, my therapist has tried, the PT centre has tried. It just doesn’t ‘take.’ It doesn’t work with my brain.”  
  
Sherlock nodded. “No offense taken. Then would you be willing to do a _goeddunken_  with me?”  
  
“A _goeddunken_?”  
  
“A _goeddunken_ , a thought experiment.”  
  
“Yes, I know what a _goeddunken_  is, thank you.”  
  
“Would you be willing?”  
  
John sighed. “This sounds like a trick to force me to meditate.”  
  
“I cannot force you to meditate, John. That is not how meditation works.”  
  
John rolled his eyes.  
  
“Sure, Sherlock. I will try your ‘thought experiment.’”  
  
“Excellent. Now. Sit up and, if you can, cross your legs like this.” Sherlock folded his legs into a very modified, easy lotus position, sitting right in front of John. John followed suit, ending up in a more modified, less-crossed version, with his bad leg sticking out rather a lot. Sherlock’s knee touched John’s more-folded one.  
  
“Yeah, this isn’t a meditation trick at all, I can tell.”  
  
“Quit complaining and give me your hands.” Sherlock took John’s hands and held them in his; his palms were open, cradling the backs of John’s hands, resting on John’s knees. John sighed heavily.  
  
“John. Are you on vacation?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Are you naked in bed with a very sexy man?”  
  
John grinned. “Yes.”  
  
“Is there anything unpleasant happening to you right now?”  
  
“Other than the fact that I am about to be forced into a farcical and futile religious exercise?”  
  
“What did I just say about me not being able to force you to do this?”  
  
John sighed again, this time still grinning. “Okay, point taken.”  
  
“Just come along for the ride, John. Now. Close your eyes.”  
  
Sherlock could see that John rolled his eyes behind his closed eyelids. Well. He certainly remembered being far more resistant at the beginning than this.  
  
“What I want you to do is listen to my voice. It’s a lovely voice, isn’t it? Deep, resonant, sultry…”  
  
“Is this the Sherlock Appreciation Hour?”  
  
“Just _listen_ , John. Listen. Listen.” Sherlock let his voice drop lower and quieter, heading toward something hypnotic and rhythmic. “Listen to my voice, focus on my voice. Let it fill your consciousness. Think about how it sounds, how it would taste if you could taste it, what it would look like if you could see it. Think about the air passing over my vocal chords, my lips and my tongue forming the words, the sound waves travelling to vibrate in your eardrums.” Sherlock’s words had slowed down, stretching and melting into something deep and dark like spoken molasses. He watched as John’s shoulders drooped a little and his face slackened its hold on its expression of disdain.  
  
“Now, while you’re listening to my words, start to feel yourself in your body. Feel how the bed is solid underneath you. Notice how it feels to have your rump on the bed, how your legs feel arranged against the sheets. Feel your hands resting in my hands. Feel your arms connected to your hands; feel your shoulders connected to your arms. Feel your head heavy on your neck. Feel your back strong and long, holding up your neck and shoulders and attaching to your hips. Feel the muscles in your face. Feel your eyelids closed against your eyeballs. Feel the air coming in and out of your nostrils. Feel your tongue resting in your mouth.”  
  
Sherlock watched as more tension leeched out of John’s body, and he felt a bit of tension leech out of his own. He resisted the urge to squeeze John’s hands in relief.  
  
“Keep listening to my voice, and at the same time, let the sounds of the room filter into your awareness. The sounds of the traffic below the hotel; the occasional honk, the faint sound of the wind outside our windows. The hum of the refrigerator. The ding of the elevator in the hallway, the sound of people walking past our door. Let these sounds drift and mingle with the sound of my voice, soothing you, holding you up, caressing your ears. Keep listening to my voice; let it be your lifeline. Keep feeling the breath pulling into your lungs through your nose and then passing back out into the room, bringing oxygen into your lungs, then going slowly back out. Feel the solidness of the bed underneath you. Feel how safe you are right now. Feel your knee against mine; feel your hands cradled in mine. Everything is quiet and safe. It’s just you and me in this room, and nothing else is important. Just keep listening to my voice.”  
  
Sherlock lost track of how long he kept this up, which was unusual. Strange, like losing track of the massage. He was adept at knowing the passing of time regardless of what was happening. When he finally thought of stopping, he realized his voice was hoarse, and John’s head was drooping forward and soft snores were coming from him. Sherlock grinned broadly. It was high praise when someone new to meditation became so relaxed that they could fall asleep. As gently as he could, he pulled his hands from under John’s and tried to tilt him back onto the pillows, but John woke with a start.  
  
“What?”  
  
“It’s okay, you drifted off,” Sherlock said quietly, having to clear his throat first.  
  
“Oh, I must have been tired. Sorry.”  
  
“It’s a compliment.” Sherlock indulged himself by brushing John’s hair from his forehead as he finally got John propped back against the pillows.  
  
“What happened?”  
  
“We were trying out a _goeddunken_  and you took a little nap.”  
  
John looked at him accusingly.  
  
“I was _right_! You tricked me into meditating!”  
  
“Did I?”  
  
“Well—it seemed like—I mean—”  
  
“Do you think you meditated?”  
  
John stopped sputtering and thought for a moment.  
  
“I’m not sure.”  
  
“What did it feel like?”  
  
“I don’t know, I fell asleep!”  
  
“Before you fell asleep,” Sherlock prompted patiently.  
  
“Um. You were talking, and I felt your hands...and there was your voice, and...weird, I could feel my _tongue_...and the elevator bell...and the wind...and your voice...and then, nothing.”  
  
“John, I hate to tell you this, but I think you accidentally meditated.”  
  
“Impossible. I cannot meditate.”  
  
Sherlock simply smiled.  
  
“I’ve _tried_. I’ve worked _hard_  to meditate. _Hard_ , I tell you.”  
  
“Working hard to meditate is somewhat counterproductive.”  
  
“But...it just doesn’t work on me…”  
  
“It doesn’t work...until it does.”  
  
“I meditated?”  
  
“You meditated. How did it feel?”  
  
“...”  
  
“How do you feel now?”  
  
“Like I slept for eight hours?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Huh.”  
  
“We can do more of that tomorrow if you like.”  
  
“Maybe.”  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think we should set up a Kickstarter to see if we could get Mr Cumberbatch to record a guided meditation for us.  
>   
> I have absolutely no problem with Starbucks; I enjoy going there on occasion. However, I think Sherlock would be an absolute snob about them.  
>   
> I haven’t been to the Zen Center. Interior completely made up from internet research. Bad author, bad!  
>   
> Bonus points if you: found the _Vertigo_  quote! caught the use of the English translation of _kadiith_! caught the Smaug quote!


	8. Wednesday (cont.): St Regis

  
_Wednesday, 17:00_  
  
“We should get some food.”  
  
“Should we?”  
  
“I’m hungry, Sherlock. And you need to eat.”  
  
“Do I?”  
  
“Yes, you do, because you are human, and all you’ve had today is tea; don’t think I wasn’t watching. And all I’ve had is a pastry and believe me, that is not enough.”  
  
Sherlock heaved a sigh worthy of being asked to carry all the belongings of all the tourists in the hotel to the airport by himself using only a hand-cart.  
  
“Do you want to go out or order room service,” he asked flatly.  
  
“Well, with such enthusiasm before me, I think room service,” John responded cheerily, pulling out the menu. He picked up the phone. Sherlock grabbed for it, and John danced away, keeping it out of his reach.  
  
“Yes, hello,” he said a bit breathlessly. Sherlock was in danger of winning the handset with his ridiculously long arms, so John went flat on the floor and crawled into the corner between the underside of the bed and the edge of the bedside table. “We’ll start with the oysters, then have the steak—medium, please—and the duck, and finish with the trio of sorbets and some coffee. As soon as possible, thanks.” He pressed the disconnect button, slid the phone further under the bed, and sat up, smiling innocently. “Problem?”  
  
“That was very childish, John.”  
  
“I think you’ll find I was being the adult. Children who refuse to eat must be tempted. It really isn’t good for you to fast this way, and I suspect you have been doing it for quite a long time.”  
  
“That’s my business.”  
  
“I think you’re talking about making it my business now, Sherlock. If we are to continue to see each other, that makes me your doctor. So you are going to have to start listening to what I say.”  
  
Sherlock continued to frown—to pout, really—until John stood up, lifted the t-shirt Sherlock had thrown on, and blew a loud and awfully rude noise onto Sherlock’s flat tummy with wet lips. Sherlock tried to protest, but John added some very tickly nibbling that resulted in Sherlock collapsing on the bed, giggling and pursued by an intent, hungry John.  
  
When John had done his best to try to eat up Sherlock’s stomach, sides, and armpits, he slid over to Sherlock’s chest, and they both stopped laughing as his lips connected with one of Sherlock’s nipples. Sherlock gasped and John stilled, his teeth holding the nub firmly but gently in their grasp.  
  
“John.”  
  
John simultaneously ground his crotch against Sherlock’s, as he was now hovered over him on all fours, teasing him, and bit a little more on the flesh in his mouth while flicking it swiftly with his tongue.  
  
“John!”  
  
Sherlock grabbed the sheets with his fists, tensing all over and digging his heels into the rug where they hung over the side of the mattress.  
  
“Something wrong?” John mumbled somewhat inaudibly into Sherlock’s skin, not letting go of his grip on the nip.  
  
“John—what—”  
  
John ground again, inelegantly, feeling Sherlock’s hardness pressed awkwardly to the side in his jeans. He let the nipple go only to take the other in a full-mouthed suction of the entire area. Sherlock’s head jerked up sharply.  
  
“John, what are you doing?”  
  
“What does it feel like I’m doing?” He dragged his lower teeth lightly up a path along Sherlock’s sternum before pressing his tongue into the suprasternal notch and probing around here and there.  
  
“It feels…” Sherlock took a breath. “...like you’re _ravaging_  me.”  
  
“Ah, that must be what I’m doing.” And John went back to tickling, just a little, on Sherlock’s sides with his fingers.  
  
“That’s _it_.” Sherlock deftly flipped them over, laying his full weight upon John, who laughed delightedly. “I’ll show you who’s the boss here,” Sherlock growled.  
  
“Oh you will, will you?”  
  
“Yes,” he hissed, his lips centimetres from John’s, “I will. And you will like it.”  
  
John’s eyes went dark as Sherlock nipped and bit in light, unsatisfying toothings all over John’s lips. John tried to lick, to encourage Sherlock to shift to a real kiss, but Sherlock pulled away and fixed him with a hard stare until John relented, grinning, and Sherlock returned to his punishing mini-bites.  
  
John retaliated by taking Sherlock’s arse in his hands and grinding up against him, and Sherlock melted into a deep, tongue-caressing kiss. John moved his hands up into Sherlock’s curls and they rolled a bit, rutting against each other, humming into each other’s mouths. Sherlock moved a sock-covered foot to stroke up the inside of one of John’s legs, and John spread his thighs in response, which made Sherlock reach down to feel John through his boxers. He was delighted to find that John was mostly _out_  of his boxers by now, and he wrapped his hand all the way around John’s silky-smooth erection and began to stroke.  
  
“Sherlock, oh god,” John groaned.  
  
“That’s it, John. So beautiful. So perfect. You are so gorgeous like this, so debauched, so willing. Let me see you. Let your artifice drop away and let me see the real you.”  
  
Sherlock realized he’d pushed a little too far as he felt the penis in his hand wilt just slightly, and he stroked more firmly to try to make up for it and went back to kissing John as intently as he knew how. John’s cock twitched and filled a little more, and John started to make desperate noises, when—there was a knock on the door.  
  
“Bugger fucking buggering father-boning ass-beavering shit-hole satanic pope in a wall. You and your bloody food.”  
  
John stared at Sherlock for a moment and then burst out laughing.  
  
“I was in medical school _and_  Afghanistan, and I can tell you for sure that was some damn good swearing.”  
  
“I’ll get the door, shall I,” Sherlock muttered sarcastically. “Perhaps you’ll want to cover that up.” He gestured vaguely to John’s poor purple cock rising proudly out of his pants.  
  


* * *

  
_19:00_  
  
John poured some cream into his coffee from the delicate china creamer.  
  
“I love when extras come in their own little dishes. It’s so civilized.”  
  
“What do you mean?” Sherlock asked, leaning back in a chair, looking utterly satisfied.  
  
“You know, like this cream in a tiny pitcher instead of little plastic cups. Or the sugar in a covered bowl instead of paper sachets. This lovely little dish, full of butter, instead of foil packets that get all greasy and stick to everything.”  
  
“I haven’t the faintest idea what you are talking about.”  
  
“You wouldn’t, would you. Coffee?”  
  
Sherlock made a face.  
  
“Good thing you weren’t hungry.”  
  
“You should know better than to make a big deal out of food to someone with an eating disorder, Doctor.”  
  
“I don’t think you have an eating disorder; I think you are an arrogant snob who thinks he doesn’t have to listen to his body, and therefore I feel absolutely vindicated in teasing you as much as I like. Were the oysters good? Because I certainly didn’t get to taste a single one.”  
  
“They weren’t quite up to snuff, John. I was saving you from mediocrity.”  
  
“Ah, is that what you were doing. Same thing with the steak?”  
  
“Clearly you were enjoying the duck; I didn’t want you to worry about trying to split your entrée loyalty.”  
  
“So selfless!” John got up and opened the freezer, pulling out the dessert.  
  
“What’s that?” Sherlock twisted around to look.  
  
“You know perfectly well what this is, you heard me order it. Now take off your t-shirt.”  
  
“Not a chance.”  
  
“I’m taking off mine.”  
  
“John!” Sherlock’s eyes lit up. “May I look at your scar?”  
  
“You’ve already _seen_  my scar, you loon, when you massaged me.”  
  
“But I didn’t really get to _investigate_  it,” Sherlock whined.  
  
John held back a sigh. “Yes, you may look at my scar, _after_  dessert. Come to the bed.”  
  
“I thought we were having _dessert_.” No human had ever said the word with such disdain.  
  
“We are, now get bare-chested and get over here.”  
  
“Oh, I think I begin to see your plan.” Sherlock stripped off his shirt and arranged himself comfortably back on the pillows; he stretched out long, wiggling his toes. John clambered up and set the sorbets on the table on his side.  
  
“I think let’s start with the obvious. Any allergies, by the way?”  
  
“Tedious. No, no allergies, Doctor.”  
  
“Excellent. Close your eyes.”  
  
“Really.”  
  
“Yes, really. Allow me a tiny element of surprise.”  
  
Sherlock rolled said eyes, then closed them with a put-upon expression. John immediately swiped lemon-ginger ice across his lips, which Sherlock licked off. John leaned down to kiss-chase the cold.  
  
“Very nice, John.”  
  
“Don’t patronize me, you prick.”  
  
Sherlock grinned.  
  
John decided the slow, seductive approach was out and plopped a spoonful of raspberry on one nipple. Sherlock yelped.  
  
“Cold!”  
  
“Obvious, Sherlock.”  
  
“Get it _off_ , John!”  
  
John obliged by sucking it off, swallowing, and continuing to suck and lick until Sherlock was moaning, his nipple pebbled hard in John’s mouth. He bit and pulled until he could feel it was puffy and then held it in his teeth as before, flicking it with the tip of his tongue as fast as he could.  
  
“John, John—stop, stop, too much.”  
  
Immediately John pulled off.  
  
“Okay?”  
  
“Yes, just put your hand on it for a minute…”  
  
John pressed his palm against it, warm, firm, and could feel Sherlock’s pulse pounding beneath the skin, his chest rising and falling quickly with his breath.  
  
“Do I need to tone it down?”  
  
Sherlock opened his eyes and looked up into John’s. His pupils were wide and dark. “No...no, it was delicious, it just tipped over the edge. I’ll tell you if it gets to be too much again.”  
  
“Okay.” John knew that his gaze was probably a bit predatory by now, but it didn’t seem to bother Sherlock, so he reached his spoon over to the watermelon, dipped it in and held it to let the spoon get cold, and then smeared the sorbet and pressed the cold spoon against Sherlock’s other nipple. He took a fingerful of the lemon-ginger and swirled it into the navel below. Sherlock grunted, and John brushed his palm over Sherlock’s renewed erection through his black trousers, wishing he’d thought to tell Sherlock to get completely undressed. The icy sorbet on his cock would have been fantastic.  
  
Instead, he began rapping lightly on Sherlock’s fruit-covered nipple with the bowl of the spoon while he dug into the navel with his tongue. Sherlock moaned softly. He hit the nipple harder and began rubbing the other, already abused nipple with the pad of his free thumb.  
  
“John, John...please…”  
  
John smirked. A weak-ass plea like that would not lead to anything. He used some suction around the outside of Sherlock’s belly button and sucked up all the lemon-ginger at once, giving the watermelon-coated nipple a particularly sharp, stinging hit with the spoon.  
  
“Aahhh!”  
  
John leaned up, licking his lips, and gave Sherlock’s cloth-covered cock a very light tap with the spoon.  
  
_Where am I going with this? I’ve never been quite so...harsh?...with a lover. I’m sort of hurting him, a little? Why, why do I like doing this? And it’s getting so sexual...but he’s hard as a rock...I just meant to eat a little ice cream off the man, what am I doing...but he’s so fucking responsive. I’m getting sucked in…_  
  
“Jooooohnnnnn….”  
  
Sherlock stretched his arms above his head and clutched at the headboard. The melting sorbet slid off his chest, staining his nipples and his skin as it dripped towards the bed. Both nipples were hard and too pink, showing signs of John’s attention. Sherlock’s navel was surrounded by a large, temporary red hickey. His hair was tousled—he must have been thrashing his head on the bed—and his eyes were dark and his expression a little lost.  
  
_I quite mean to start this, but I know how to end it._  
  
John reached over and flicked open the button on Sherlock’s jeans, then pulled down the zip. He laid open the two sides of the flies and took a moment to admire the hard length straining the silk of Sherlock’s pants. He stroked his fingertips lightly over the bulging vein and the prominent coronal ridge, quite visible through the cloth. His mouth watered. Suddenly impatient, he jerked the trousers just under Sherlock’s arse and hooked the pants under his balls. As he reached up to snag a miniature parfait glass of melting sorbet, he saw Sherlock watching him intently.  
  
He glanced at what he’d grabbed—watermelon—and looked down at Sherlock’s straining member, foreskin completely retracted, precum drizzling out the tip to make a sticky string. For a moment he mentally flipped through the statistics on acquiring STDs via blow jobs while making a quick visual examination of the penis in front of him, lifting it and viewing the underside, and felt a heady recklessness overcome him. Just as he was about to pour the cold liquid over Sherlock, he was startled to see an unwrapped condom held in front of him.  
  
“No exceptions, John.”  
  
John took a deep breath. He had been about to be uncharacteristically stupid. He reached over to set the sorbet back down and gratefully smoothed the condom into place, taking a little too long as he relished the pulsing shape in his hand. Then he grabbed the sorbet and dumped it all over the now-wrapped treasure.  
  
“Cold!”  
  
Immediately, John leaned down and took Sherlock fully into his mouth. He gagged slightly before he remembered how to manage—Sherlock was definitely as long in cock as in body. He sucked slowly and sumptuously as he pulled almost all the way off, holding the base steady in one hand, and slid back down equally slowly, tasting the sorbet this time and bothering to swallow. Melted watermelon juice dribbled all down his chin, onto his chest, and covered Sherlock’s balls. They would have to shower after this.  
  
Sherlock groaned and arched his back.  
  
“John….so good…”  
  
John hummed in agreement, which made Sherlock pedal his legs against the bed. John concentrated on the heavy feeling of Sherlock against his tongue, filling his mouth. It had been so long. His own cock throbbed at the feeling of sucking on something warm and throbbing. He felt alive; he felt aroused. He felt connected to another human being. It was fantastic.  
  
“John, John, John…” Sherlock was chanting.  
  
John reached down and gently rolled one of Sherlock’s balls in his fingers. This was always tricky; some guys loved it, and some guys reacted very, very negatively to any touch in that region.  
  
“OHHHHH…” Sherlock groaned, bucking and writhing so that John had to pull off for a moment. “Oh...John...do that again, please, do that again.”  
  
Okay, so that would be a checkmark in the “good” category. He recaptured Sherlock’s length in his hot mouth and set to sucking again, stroking against both his balls now, rolling them carefully, pressing up between them to rub at the very base of Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock was moaning continuously now, writhing but being careful to keep his pelvis still so that John could keep performing his magic.  
  
John pulled off to lick the crown again and poked his tongue carefully into the slit, as much as he could with the condom in the way.  
  
“OH!” Sherlock yelled. “OH! OH! OH!”  
  
John reached a finger back behind Sherlock’s balls and pressed up against the perineum. He continued to push his tongue into the slit while sucking at the head and squeezing his hand at the base.  
  
“Oh, God, John...fuck...I think I’m going to come...fuck fuck fuck…”  
  
John went back to sucking the full length but kept his middle finger pressing behind the balls, rolling the balls as much as he could with with the rest of his hand.  
  
“SHIT!” And Sherlock was spurting into the condom in John’s mouth, bucking so hard that John had to actively move with him to keep his mouth on him. He could feel the pulsing even through the barrier, and he wished he could swallow Sherlock’s essence; all he could taste was latex and a little watermelon sorbet.  
  
“Oh...oh...oh…” Sherlock kept making little moans as he collapsed, limp, against the bed, staring up at the ceiling, unseeing.  
  
“Oh John...oh...oh…”  
  
John crawled up the bed and pulled Sherlock to him. They were both sticky and sex- and fruit-scented. John cradled Sherlock’s head against his chest and slowly stroked his fingers through Sherlock’s curls, making an absolute mess of his hair. Sherlock rolled over and buried his face against John’s chest.  
  
“Oh John,” he sighed. “Oh, John.”  
  
John thought about finishing off with “ _That’s_  why people have dessert,” but he thought it might be a touch too snarky, so he just held Sherlock, who, surprisingly, fell into a rather deep sleep. Through some awkward maneuvering, John was able to pull the duvet half over Sherlock from the other side of the bed, and John watched him fondly as he breathed deeply, wondering just how much sleep he usually got.  
  



	9. Wednesday (cont.)/Thursday: St Regis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: MENTION OF TORTURE  
>   
> This is the chapter where Sherlock remembers some bad things that happened to him. It's in the past, it's hinted at, and we don't see exact details, but if this type of thing bothers you, I recommend skipping this chapter. You can leave me a comment or contact me at the email address in my profile and I can send you a version of this chapter without the bad bits.  
>   
> Alternately, skip the section headed "Thursday, 03:00"

  
_Wednesday, 23:00_  
  
“John. _John_. Wake _up._ ”  
  
John’s fist flung out and cracked against Sherlock’s cheekbone. Sherlock let out a muffled yelp and fell backwards onto the floor.  
  
“NO,” John said loudly, jumping out of bed. He stumbled against the bedside table, tripped, and also fell on the floor. A glass of water toppled onto him, smacking against his head and soaking him, and that’s when he woke up.  
  
Sherlock moved quickly around the bed, setting the glass back on the table, running his fingers gently through John’s wet hair.  
  
“You’re going to have a lump there.”  
  
“What did I do.”  
  
“Nothing serious, John. It was just a nightmare.”  
  
“I broke skin.” John touched his fingertips near the cut on Sherlock’s cheekbone, frowning.  
  
“I’ve had worse,” Sherlock said with a reassuring smile, but John’s expression just got darker.  
  
“Not helpful.”  
  
“Come on, John. I think it’s time we both got a shower, don’t you?”  
  
John looked down at himself: he was covered with smears of dried sorbet and damp sweat. He looked at Sherlock, who looked a bit like he had been through the Sorbet Wars. He shucked out of his boxers and headed for the bathroom. Sherlock hurried to join him.  
  
“Oh, do you want to go first?”  
  
“No, I want to go alongside.”  
  
John blinked.  
“The shower is more than big enough to accommodate us both, John. Surely you’ve showered with lovers before.”  
  
“No, actually. Not really something that’s encouraged in the Army of the United Kingdom.”  
  
“Such a shame. Then let me introduce you to the pleasures of soapy flesh.”  
  
Sherlock removed the rest of his clothing and turned on the shower, adjusting it to the ideal temperature. He tweaked some settings, and he watched as John gaped at jets pouring from three walls of black tile. Clearly, John had been using the traditional single overhead nozzle.  
  
“Step in, John.”  
  
John did so, and Sherlock saw him visibly sigh as he was engulfed in streams of water just this side of too hot. Sherlock had made sure that none of the shower nozzles that were positioned above the level of John’s shoulders—that would have splashed him in the face—were turned on. Sherlock moved in behind him and closed the glass door; then he wrapped his arms around John, pressing against him. John turned to nuzzle into his chest and wrap warm arms around his back. Sherlock rubbed his flaccid cock against John’s tummy and felt John’s skin along the length of his body. It was an incredibly comforting feeling.  
  
“Let me wash you,” he murmured.  
  
John looked up, eyebrows raised in a question. Sherlock took the fragrant hotel bath gel and poured a generous amount into his large hands, lathering it up. He turned John and began to knead it into John’s skin, working it into his neck and back with as much massage as the slippery soap would allow. John reached out and braced himself against the wall, groaning as the shower jets found tight muscles along his front. Sherlock dragged his hands down to John’s buttocks, pulling and kneading; then he firmly let his fingertips slide into the crease, and though John gasped, he didn’t move away, and Sherlock carefully cleaned that most private place.  
  
Then Sherlock knelt and thoroughly washed John’s legs, rubbing them slowly with his palms and fingers, letting John feel as much touch as possible. He soaped up into the crease of John’s inner thighs and down to caress his knobby knees; he stroked warmly around John’s ankles. He lifted each of John’s feet, one at a time, and soothed slowly along the soles, digging his thumbs in, pulling on the toes, slipping his fingers into the between-toe webbing, sliding around the skin again and again. He made sure one foot was thoroughly rinsed, for stability, before lifting the other.  
  
By the time Sherlock stood again and replenished his body gel handful, John was slumped against the wall of shower jets, cutting many of them off. Sherlock smiled fondly and helped shift him around so that he was leaning with his back against the wall. Now he repeated the process on John’s front: working on John’s arms, paying careful and detailed attention to his hands and his fingers, massaging and touching. He soaped and rubbed firmly over his chest and belly, not wanting to arouse the nipples or tickle under the arms or over the ribs.  
  
Finally, he attended to John’s beautiful cock and balls. John’s penis was half-erect. Sherlock lovingly washed his perineum and soaped around the testicles, pulling oh-so-slightly. He washed outside the shaft, using an overhand stroke with both palms; then he carefully pulled the foreskin down and soaped underneath, rinsing quickly in case the soap stung. John was very close to fully erect, now, but that was not Sherlock’s goal, so he left John’s penis with a tiny pat, as if to say “Okay, you’re clean now,” and turned to pour out a large measure of shampoo.  
  
“Turn and lean against me, John.”  
  
John groaned prettily and complied. Sherlock found himself with a warm, lazily limp John laid upon him and realized this might not be the optimum position for shampooing, but he decided he would make it work. Slowly, he began to ease the liquid into John’s short blond-gray hair, letting his fingertips rub the skin of John’s scalp. He alternated with a very light scratching of his nails, making John moan, and then went back to rubbing. He did this for a very long time while the shower stayed pleasantly hot, spraying both of them from three directions, pounding out their tensions. Sherlock had to use his strength to keep both of them upright, but it wasn’t much of a burden, especially with the constant pleasure his nerves were singing of from the snuggling of John against him.  
  
He hadn’t ever actually done anything like this. He’d never had an actual lover; a few clients had requested joint showers, but those had usually just consisted of him blowing them or getting fucked by them in the spray. He had been aware of the sensual possibilities of the St Regis’ incredible surround shower, but no clients had been interested. Just as well; doing this sort of thing with any of them would have been a sick mockery of what he was feeling now.  
  
What was he feeling, exactly? _I feel at peace...I think this is that contentment that Molly is always yammering on about. I don’t want to be anywhere else, doing anything else. Standing here, feeling John draped against me, rubbing the tension out of his surprisingly tight scalp, is incredibly satisfying. Feeling his body against mine is unlike anything I’ve ever imagined. Touching other people has always been unpleasant; a necessity at best, repulsive at worst. Touching John...touching John is like filling up a hole in my chest with warm pudding. That’s preposterous. Touching John is like...when Redbeard would come into my bed late at night after Mycroft was asleep. No._ No.  
  
Sherlock shook himself and began to draw the shampoo out through the strands of John’s hair. John turned around and nestled up against Sherlock with a sigh, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders. Sherlock was shocked at how a body so much shorter than his could fit against him so perfectly.  
  
_Touching John is like...touching Plato’s absurd split-apart. It’s like touching the other half of me. None of this makes any sense._ Sherlock sighed. _Molly would say that’s when things sometimes make the most sense._  
  
Sherlock found that he had stopped washing John’s hair and was, instead, simply rubbing John’s back in slow circles. John gave a soft sigh into his neck. Sherlock didn’t want to move, didn’t want to leave this moment in time.  
  
“Sherlock.”  
  
“Yes, John. Anything.”  
  
“The soap is getting in my eyes.”  
  
“Oh. Oh! Here, let me.” Sherlock activated the boring, overhead shower fixture. “Close your eyes and tilt your head back.” He pulled it out of the wall and angled it to spray the bubbles back from John’s face; then, shielding John’s eyes with his hand, he continued to rinse John’s hair until the water ran soap-free.  
  
John smiled up at him.  
  
“Thank you, Sherlock. That was lovely.”  
  
Sherlock smiled down at him, not realizing there was a touch of sadness in his eyes. The moment was already gone.  
  
“Now let me do you.”  
  
“Oh, no, I’ll just do a quick wash and we’ll get out.”  
  
“Nonsense. You would deny me my pleasure, would you?”  
  
“What—”  
  
“I want to wash you, Sherlock. I’ve never done it before. Won’t you let me?”  
  
John looked up at him with an odd gleam in his eye.  
  
“I...suppose so, if you really want to.”  
  
“Oh, I do.” John poured bath gel into his hands with a look of glee. He proceeded to run slippery fingers _all over_  Sherlock. As a doctor, it seemed he had some ideas of intimate places that needed washing that even Sherlock hadn’t known about. He had Sherlock bending and twisting and lifting his legs and moving his arms this way and that. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it was a bit weird, and before long he had Sherlock laughing.  
  
Some of it tickled, and some of it was bizarrely erotic—what exactly was John _doing_  with his armpits?!—and some of it was more expectedly erotic— _he_  certainly hadn’t washed quite _that_  far up when he’d worked between John’s buttocks. And some of the washing seemed to involve John’s mouth and not the regulation soap. Rather a lot of the washing, in fact. Soon, John had figured out how to angle the shower nozzles and had positioned Sherlock so that one water jet was trained on his anus, two were directed at different sides of his cock, one on was pounding on each of his nipples, one was aimed between his left big toe and “index” toe (who knew that was an erogenous zone?!), and John had one of Sherlock’s balls rolling in one hand and his other hand was working just behind the head of his cock, and then Sherlock was coming, hard, yelling and shooting out onto the black tile floor and John was laughing against his inner thigh, the vibrations forcing one more jerk of ejaculate out of him when he thought he was finished.  
  
Sherlock held onto the safety grip of the shower, panting.  
  
“John. John.” He tried to catch his breath. “That wasn’t right.” _Pant_. “It was your turn.”  
  
“Turn schmurn,” John said, rinsing his hand. “Who gives a fuck about turns.”  
  
“Everyone does, John. Everyone ‘gives a fuck’ about turns.”  
  
“Not me. I like sex. We’re having sex. Case closed.”  
  
Sherlock squinted down at John, who was still sat bare-arsed on the floor of the shower, grinning smugly and running his hands idly up and down Sherlock’s legs.  
  
“Sure there isn’t some avoidance going on there?”  
  
“Oh, fuck you, Sherlock,” John said tiredly. “It’s been a long day. I had to visit a bunch of monks and worry about being turned into some celibate cult member. Then I was reminded of my convenient surprise-attack impotency, endured a stealth meditation, ate a whole duck, seduced the master of seduction, had a nightmare so fantastic that I beat up my new boyfriend, got turned into a puddle in the shower by said boyfriend, and then brilliantly got off that very same boyfriend. I think I’m entitled to a little temporary celibacy.”  
  
“You are.”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
“As long as it’s not avoidance.”  
  
“Arrrgh!”  
  


* * *

  
_Thursday, 03:00_  
  
Sherlock idly ran his fingers through John’s drying hair. John’s head was tucked up against his neck, John’s arm was across his chest where it had been flung after he’d fallen asleep, and one of John’s legs was crooked possessively over Sherlock’s pelvis. It wasn’t entirely comfortable, but there were acres of skin touching his own, and he could feel John’s quiescent penis sleeping against his hip, and it was such a new experience, having a trusting human asleep in his arms, that Sherlock wanted to spend all night studying it, or at least as long as he got until John woke again from whatever terrors his unconscious mind decided to bring up tonight.  
  
Sherlock held his tablet in his other hand, but he hadn’t turned it on yet. Instead he took a deep, cleansing breath and allowed himself to begin thinking about the problem of London. He would need Mycroft’s help, that was clear. And depressing. And he would need to have a plan before he called his dear brother to have any hope of any control over his life for the next few years. Realistically, he knew that going back meant that he would have to humble himself and allow Mycroft a great deal of power over him for a while. Mycroft’s smugness would be insufferable, but it must be borne; John was worth that and much, much more. John was worth enduring anything, really.  
  
_To review. It was entirely Mycroft’s fault, of course. I would never have targeted Moriarty if he hadn’t been Mycroft’s mortal enemy. In fact, I would never have turned to cocaine in the first place if Mycroft hadn’t strictly forbidden it. Of all the parting advice Mycroft could have given…_  
  
“Sherlock, I know they do things differently at Cambridge,” Mycroft intoned in dry, nasal superiority over the phone as Sherlock rolled his eyes. “But I assure you that there are some things that will not be in your best interests. Do not tell the dons what they have got wrong. Do not sleep with the wrong boys. And do not, whatever you do, for God’s sake, partake of cocaine.”  
  
“Yes yes, Mycroft, thanks ever so much, see you soon, take care of the British government, ta ta,” Sherlock said, hanging up the phone and bending back down to suck the waiting cock in front of him. _Hm, who was that boy,_  thought Sherlock in the hotel room, _anyway? Not someone worth remembering, clearly. Why cocaine? Why didn’t Mycroft warn me about meth, or at least crack?_  But cocaine it was, so cocaine Sherlock had to have, the first day he arrived at Cambridge.  
  
Sherlock grinned in the dark with sudden insight, teasing strands of John’s hair lightly through his fingers. _Ah, of course! Cocaine, because it was enough of a forbidden drug so it seemed terribly dangerous and exciting, but not as dangerous as methamphetamine, which would have taken me down a path from which I could not have returned._ All of Mycroft’s advice had been reasonable and was also obviously advice Sherlock would ignore. _Huh. He was looking out for me even then, in his own strange way. Maybe he even knew that it would quiet my mind, make the horrible racing more bearable._  
  
Sherlock felt an uncharacteristic pulse of fondness in his heart for his older brother.  
  
_Well. Enough of_ that _._  
  
Sherlock had lasted a year and a half before he had been unceremoniously “excused” from Cambridge and had turned his sights to Parliament, where Mycroft had been busily nosing about. It had taken but a few days before he had uncovered the animosity between Mycroft and Moriarty, though he hadn’t bothered digging deeply enough to find out why the feud existed. (By the time he did find out, it was far too late.) It was obvious what would irritate his brother the most; conveniently, it was also obvious what Moriarty wanted the most. He had slid into a booth next to Moriarty in an elegant restaurant one night, dressed in his most form-fitting black suit, a hair-thin silver chain around his neck, subtle eyeliner and barely there lip gloss adorning his face.  
  
He hadn’t even smiled; he had just gazed at Moriarty with eyes that he had known were shifting colours bewitchingly in the low light of the room.  
  
Moriarty had _beamed_.  
  
“Ah, the younger brother. _Lovely_. I could eat you up with a _spoon_. _Won’t_  Mycroft be delighted. And _isn’t_  ‘spoon’ the operative word, darling. It’s been about 18 hours, I’d say? Don’t worry, my delectable waif. Daddy Jim will take care of you.” Moriarty had run a possessive hand slowly up Sherlock’s inner thigh from knee to crotch and then had boldly caressed his cock through his jeans under the table, stroking firmly until it came to life.  
  
“Seb, go get the room ready. We will have business to conduct. Make sure there is a plentiful supply,” he directed sharply to the minion Sherlock had seen and mentally dismissed. Then he turned back to Sherlock and leaned over to speak softly, directly into his ear.  
  
“We are going to have _so_  much fun, you and I.”  
  
When Sherlock left London, in the dead of night on a chartered plane surrounded by Mycroft’s security, he was skin and bones. His eyes were sunken into a bruised face. Under his clothing were more bruises upon bruises, some of his bones in casts. On the plane he was fitted for artificial teeth. He was in involuntary withdrawal simply because they could not find enough of the cocktail of illegal drugs, which Moriarty had been feeding him for months, to keep him stable for the flight. He was nonverbal and was not really aware of what was happening. But when he arrived in San Francisco, he refused treatment.  
  
It was a miracle that he was alive to hold John in his arms today. He bent his head and kissed John’s hair, feeling more grateful for surviving than he ever had in his life.  
  


* * *

  
_06:00_  
  
John woke to a delicious warmth wrapped around him. Without opening his eyes, he wriggled a bit and assessed his situation. Warm skin pressed all along his back. Legs tangled with his in a complicated way his sleepy brain couldn’t quite sort out. A plump cock nestled against his arse. A sharp cheekbone pressed against his parietal bone. One arm was pillowing his neck; another was cuddled around his waist, and long fingers were wrapped around his short ones. John sighed happily and slowly opened his eyes to the view of the ever-present fog and skyscrapers outside their windows.  
  
“Good morning, John.”  
  
“Do you ever sleep?”  
  
“Only when absolutely necessary.”  
  
The arm pillow disappeared and fingers began to stroke softly through his hair, gently waking his scalp nerves.  
  
“You slept well.”  
  
“Mmmm.”  
  
“No nightmares.”  
  
“Huh.” John rolled around in Sherlock’s embrace and met his eyes. “No nightmares?”  
  
“No nightmares.”  
  
“You must not have been paying attention.”  
  
Sherlock grinned.  
  
“I haven’t slept through the night since...well, since before Afghanistan.”  
  
“Ah _ha_! Afghanistan.”  
  
Sherlock leaned in for a kiss and John reared back. “Morning breath!” he mumbled, holding his hand against his mouth.  
  
“Nonsense. After ten seconds you won’t notice.” Sherlock pulled John’s hand away and commenced a very thorough, tongue-y kiss. Sherlock was right; after about ten seconds, all John could taste was the two of them, and he supposed that was true for Sherlock as well, who tasted not-morning-ish at all anyway, since he hadn’t slept.  
  
John pressed up against Sherlock, relishing their nakedness. They had gone straight to bed after the shower. John began to rub against Sherlock’s long, muscular body, and he had almost aligned their swelling erections, when Sherlock pulled the sheet between them abruptly.  
  
“John. For a Doctor, you certainly continue to astonish me with your carelessness.”  
  
John sighed.  
  
“I’m sorry, Sherlock. You’re absolutely right. It’s been a while, and I confess that I’ve never been quite as...assiduous...as you are (and rightly so) about being careful.”  
  
“As soon as we’re back, we’ll get tested so we can be fluid bonded. Then we won’t have to worry about these boring interruptions.”  
  
“Are you proposing monogamy?”  
  
“Well, no, not exactly...I’m not sure I am built for monogamy, John.” Sherlock paused, staring into John’s eyes searchingly. “Does that shock you?”  
  
“I’m not sure. What did you mean by ‘fluid bonding?’”  
  
“Surely you know that term, as a Doctor. It means that you and I are tested and are STD-free and safe to share fluids, and that we shan’t share fluids with anyone else, that we will use strict safer sex procedures with anyone else we might have sexual—or, for that matter, non-sexual—fluid interactions with.”  
  
John looked away, processing this.  
  
“I guess it’s a bit soon to be thinking you’d want to commit yourself to me, to sign a marriage certificate or something. Ridiculous, really.”  
  
“John.” Sherlock touched John’s face to recapture his gaze. “John, I’m falling for you. I’m not thinking about anyone but you. I am completely high on what they call ‘New Relationship Energy.’ You have my complete focus. I’m saying that I can imagine wanting to play with others in the future, wanting to go _with you_  to a club or bring someone home _with us_. I don’t want to rule anything out. But you are what I want. I am certain of that. I have never had a relationship before, and I do not want another one. I want you. Do you understand?”  
  
John was horrified to find his eyes tearing up, and he swiped at them with his knuckles in frustration.  
  
“Well, that’s good, then. Okay. So we’ll get tested when we get back. Good. Right.” He kissed Sherlock clumsily and forcefully, and Sherlock grinned into it, which ruined it more, and it was an utterly perfect kiss.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The shower described in this chapter is a _sin_  in today’s California. _I cannot condone it in real life_ , even for tourists. We are dry, folks. Bone dry. I don’t take showers any more; I take Navy-style showers with [one of these](http://lifehacker.com/400535/install-a-water-saving-shower-shutoff-valve). My car hasn’t been washed in a year. We are disgusted by lawns. So let’s just go with this AU including not only legal Companions but also a California where the water flows plentifully and rain happens as often as we need, and our heroes get to spend as long as they damn well like in a multi-nozzle never-cold shower because they deserve it; they’ve been through hell.


	10. Thursday (cont.): St Regis, Denny's, Columbarium, St Regis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: MENTION OF (accidental) CHILD ABUSE  
>   
> This is the chapter where John talks about something bad that happened to his sister’s toddler. It was an accident, it’s in the past, and we don’t see the scene in detail, but if this sort of thing bothers you, I recommend skipping this chapter. You can leave me a comment or contact me at the email address in my profile and I can send you a version of this chapter without the bad bits.  
>   
> Alternately, skip the section headed “10:00”

  
_Thursday, 07:00_  
  
“Sherlock, I’m _starving_.”  
  
“Of course you are.”  
  
“Yes, how tedious, I am a typical human being with a demanding stomach. Therefore you must _feed me_.”  
  
“Feed you?” Sherlock perked up. “You mean in a sexual way?”  
  
“I mean in a getting-food-into-my-tummy way. Wait, what’s the sexual way?”  
  
“Well, throughout human history, food has been closely linked with sexuality. Humans have intertwined feeding with sexuality in many practices, explaining of course why nipples are so sexualized. In fact, I’d say you had some practice yourself with sorbet. If you like, I could show you some of the deeper psychological implications of figs.”  
  
“Perhaps later. Right now I was more hoping for some eggs and bacon, from a fork on a plate by my own hand, thank you.”  
  
“Would you like room service?” Sherlock reached for the phone, which he had of course retrieved as soon as John wasn’t looking, the night before.  
  
“No, I want to try that American place some soldiers told me about. What was it called...Lenny’s...Benny’s…”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Something-enny’s...said it has magic silverware...said it was the most American place you could ever eat at. -enny’s...Kenny’s?…”  
  
“Absolutely not. No.”  
  
“Denny’s? Is that it? Yeah, Denny’s!”  
  
“NO.”  
  
Fifteen minutes later, John was happily dragging his spoon around by the handle of his knife on a laminated table while Sherlock groaned into his hands.  
  
“It _is_! It _is_  magic silverware! I’ll be damned!”  
  
Sherlock tried to slide further under the table in his booth seat, but his knees hit John’s booth seat and prevented his escape.  
  
“Jawwwwwwn,” he whined.  
  
“Oh stop, this is magnificent.”  
  
The server came to the table. John didn’t seem to notice how utterly bored the young man looked.  
  
“Yeah, I’d like a Moons Over My Hammy, please?”  
  
“Do you want hash browns, home fries, or grits with that?”  
  
“Oh! What are grits?”  
  
“Corn sperm.”  
  
“Oh, yeah, I think I’ll have to have some of those, please.”  
  
“Butter or cheese?”  
  
“Uh, butter?”  
  
“Any juice or coffee?”  
  
“Both please!”  
  
“Orange, apple, or cranberry?”  
  
Sherlock couldn’t hold back a smile at how delighted John was with this checklist of choices.  
  
“Orange, please!”  
  
“And for you?” The server turned slightly towards Sherlock.  
  
“Coffee, black. With the pitcher.”  
  
The server walked away without another word. John grinned at Sherlock, victorious in his excellent meal choices, and went back to dragging his spoon around the table.  
  
“I have never seen anyone order that repulsive pun of a breakfast item without irony or shame.”  
  
“It’s adorable! It’s a play on the old film, _Moon Over Miami_! Betty Grable and Don Ameche—”  
  
“Yes, John, everyone gets it. No one alive has seen that movie and no one ever orders it because it is the stupidest thing on the menu.”  
  
“I think it’s sweet! And how would _you_  know who orders it? I thought you’d never been to a Denny’s!”  
  
“ _Everyone_  has been to a Denny’s. The Aga Khan has been to a Denny’s. The Dalai Lama has been to a Denny’s. The only people who have never been to a Denny’s are my mother and my brother; if they ever set foot in one, the falcon will not hear the falconer, the centre will not hold, and the light will surely die.”  
  
“When were you at a Denny’s?” Predictably, John skipped over the interesting parts and zeroed in on the embarrassing bit.  
  
“I was a drug addict, John,” Sherlock said evenly. “Where do you think drug addicts go to be strung out and eat cheap food?”  
  
“Never really thought about it before,” John said as a plate was set in front of him and he cheerfully dug into his sandwich. The scent of melting American “cheese” and substandard coffee wafted over Sherlock and was familiar and oddly comforting.  
  
“You’re a Doctor, and you never thought about the behaviours of drug addicts?”  
  
“Was usually more concerned with arms falling off and hearts not pumping when filled with bullets. Pregnancies, scraped knees and drug addiction is still fairly new to me yet,” he said around a mouthful. “God this is delicious. I don’t care what it’s called.”  
  
“Put some butter into your grits before they cool off.” Sherlock stirred some butter in for John since both of his hands were occupied. “And turn this other sandwich half over, otherwise the bottom piece of bread gets soggy.”  
  


* * *

_09:00_  
  
After John finished plowing through a caramel apple crisp—the most decadent dessert he could find on the menu—he slipped off his shoes and stretched out on the booth bench, back against the wall, sipping his third cup of coffee. The music service was tuned to some 80s nostalgia mix for the middle-aged crowd; misaligned, Sherlock thought, for a weekday morning in techie downtown SF.  
  
_Talking away_  
_I don't know what I'm to say_  
_I'll say it anyway_  
_Today's another day to find you_  
_Shying away..._  
  
“They really don’t mind how long we take?”  
  
“They really don’t. Customers stay here for hours. They prefer if you buy something new every once in a while, but it’s not a requirement. It’s what Denny’s is known for; it’s why they’re open 24 hours. You can always go hang out at Denny’s.”  
  
“What was it like then, being a drug addict? If you don’t mind my asking?”  
  
“You can always ask me anything, John. Because I always have the right to not answer.”  
  
John took a swallow and watched Sherlock over the rim of the cup.  
  
“It was...exhilarating. Cocaine has a soothing effect on my brain. Calms down the racing thoughts. I was sharper; more focused than I had been in years. I could _think_ ; I could _see_. I started solving crimes again. Did I tell you I did that when I was younger? I would read the newspaper and solve the crimes described therein. I wrote to the police. Well, I started out by telling them, but they wouldn’t listen to a seven-year-old. So I switched to writing them. They thought I was some old coot, a hermit who had a weird hobby. But once in a while they couldn’t ignore me, when I had enough details, and I’d see a few weeks later in the paper that they’d solved their latest unsolvable case, and I’d know it was because of me. I became really adept at sneaking around, finding the clues I needed at crime scenes, at suspects’ homes and offices, putting together the pieces. And I’d write them up and send them in.”  
  
John was staring at Sherlock, coffee forgotten and cooling on the table.  
  
“That’s amazing.”  
  
Sherlock smiled a little.  
  
“No one knew. After the first rebuff as a child, the police came to my parents, told them to keep me in check. Mummy and Father chastised me in their offhand way, told me to stay out of trouble, that sort of thing. So I told no one of my continued efforts. Well, Mycroft knew, of course. He was the only one who came into my room; the cleaning staff refused, due to my experiments. So he saw all my case walls, where I pinned up the evidence to piece it together. But he never spoke of it and never interfered.”  
  
John frowned at this.  
  
“So I wrote to the police as M. Sigerson. Used a post box of a nearby town. And I was right so many times they had to start listening to me. Dropped it all when I hit puberty, though. That’s when my mind started racing; I couldn’t concentrate. I read as many books as I could; performed experiments day and night, ran for hours through the woods near our house. Nothing worked. It was unbearable; I could not stop thinking, observing, processing. Of course I was withdrawn from school. They tried therapists. They could have written _Good Will Hunting_  based on me. They tried 20 therapists before they gave up. Waste of time. I spent years trapped in my own mind.  
  
“When I started university, I immediately tried cocaine. It was a revelation. I could think once more; I could focus. I began solving crimes again; there was even a small item in the newspaper about the return of M. Sigerson. Of course he had moved to a town near Cambridge. I didn’t solve quite as many crimes, though, because I had also discovered sex.”  
  
“More coffee?” the server asked.  
  
“Yes, please.” John moved his cup closer to the edge of the table; Sherlock just put his cup down in front of himself. John poured the contents of two plastic cream containers into his mug and stirred.  
  
“And then, I was asked to leave university...and six months later, I had to leave London.”  
  
John watched Sherlock carefully, seeing his face go blank.  
  
“Want to talk about that yet?”  
  
“No. I will have to soon, but I’ll put that off as long as I can.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“So I got here, and I was a bit of a mess. Lots more than coke in my system. Not by choice. Not quite sure how I ended up in the city after my brother got me to the airport. I was in this Denny’s, actually.” Sherlock coughed. “Wasn’t exactly at my best. And Molly…awkward, earnest, bashful little Molly...sat down next to me, bought me a meal and forced me to eat it, and dragged me over to the Zen Center. They gave me a bath and a place to sleep. Next day I was back on the street, shagging for drugs, but I never forgot where the Center was.”  
  
Sherlock had been toying with a sugar packet, but now he looked back up at John.  
  
“Being a drug addict was exhilarating. And then it was mind-numbing. And then it was...bad. And then it was just how I lived. And then I stopped. I don’t think there’s anything in that story you can use to help anyone else, or to understand anyone else. I am in this, as in all other things, unique. Sorry to disappoint.”  
  
Sherlock looked as though he was daring John to do...something. To contradict him, or to shower him with platitudes, or to reject him. To tell him he was a bad person, to tell him he was wrong, to tell him this wasn’t going to work.  
  
But John’s face was open. There was no judgement there; no pity. John was looking at him with eyes that had seen more than Sherlock had realized. John was looking at him with something he had never seen before: acceptance.  
  
“C’mon, Sherlock. Show me some more of this city. I want to be a tourist.”  
  


* * *

  
_10:00_  
  
“Wow, what is this place? Is it a museum? It’s so fancy!”  
  
“You’ll see, John. Just wait.” Sherlock was practically vibrating with anticipation; he bounced a little on his toes, waiting for John to climb out of the cab. This was his favorite place in San Francisco, and he could not wait to share it with John. He had been thrilled when he had stumbled upon it himself and had spent many happy hours inside, revisiting his favorite niches or just revelling in the quiet and thinking.  
  
They stepped onto the marble floor in the cool, large entrance, and John stared up and around for long moments.  
  
“These...Sherlock, these are _urns_.”  
  
“Yes, John! Good! This is the Neptune Society’s Columbarium.”  
  
“This is a kind of...cemetery.”  
  
“Yes; technically, it’s called a columbarium. It’s the only place that dead bodies are allowed to be kept in San Francisco.”  
  
“You brought me to a cemetery.”  
  
“A colum—John, don’t you think it’s neat?”  
  
John looked at Sherlock, stricken.  
  
“John, come on, let me show you around a bit. Isn’t it beautiful in here?” Sherlock was speaking in unusually hushed tones. “This is Harvey Milk. He was one of the founders of—”  
  
“Yes, I know who Harvey Milk was.”  
  
“He used to be way in the back on the third floor, but they recently moved him here to the entrance under pressure from city leaders. A committee was formed to decorate the niche. It’s freshened every week. But let me take you upstairs, to the 80s wing...it’s heartbreaking, you can’t imagine, so many young men…” Sherlock turned to see John walking out the front entrance.  
  
“John!” he whispered, and he ran after his friend.  
  
He found John sat on a bench a block away, back stiff, staring straight ahead. He sat down next to him.  
  
“John, I’m sorry. I did not know it would affect you that way.”  
  
“What way, Sherlock? What way did it affect me?” John turned to stare at him with glittering, midnight-blue eyes. “Why would you think that bothered me?”  
  
“I...I’m not sure, exactly. It’s just so beautiful, and it’s so interesting! So many fascinating people, and the whole idea of that building being the only place left for burials in the city, and the travesty of digging all those bodies up in the 1920s to make room for lucrative real estate—”  
  
John’s jaw clenched, and he shifted to stare straight ahead again.  
  
Sherlock took a deep breath and tried to figure out what was going wrong.  
  
_Did he lose a loved one recently? No, I would have noticed. His dad died, but that was before he went to Afghanistan, and he wasn’t particularly sad about it. A phobia about dead people or cemeteries? Unlikely, he’s a doctor, he’s seen dead people, must have had to work with them and go into morgues in medical school. Friends who died of AIDS? Too young. What am I missing...think, think...’Arms ripped off, hearts not pumping’...’I got to you in time’...Ah. The ones he lost in the war, the ones under his care. Obvious. Stupid._  
  
“John. That was careless of me. I apologize.”  
  
“What? No big deal, a big gorgeous building full of ashes. Historical. Let’s go back in, tell me all about the founders of San Francisco, the gay men who died in the name of Reagan’s homophobic policies.” John stood up; Sherlock grabbed his wrist and pulled him back down.  
  
“What do you want from me, Sherlock? There’s no reason for me not to go in there. None at all. I’ll prove it to you. Let’s just go back in and get it _over_  with, okay? Just fucking get your hand off me.” John was shaking. Sherlock didn’t dare let go. He hadn’t seen this look on John’s face before; he imagined this was what John must have looked like in the face of the enemy. He looked utterly calm, completely determined. Fierce. If Sherlock had any sense, he would have been frightened, but he had never had any sense in his life.  
  
“John. Stand down. We do not need to prove anything to anybody. You need to breathe, and you need to think about something else. Tell me why you hate your sister.”  
  
“What?” John’s eyes snapped to his, confused.  
  
“Why do you hate your sister so much? Is it the alcoholism, or is it because she divorced her wife?”  
  
John laughed sharply.  
  
“I don’t hate her. I love her.”  
  
“Of course you do. But you certainly don’t like her.” It was working; he’d broken the panic attack by surprising John.  
  
John let out a deep sigh. “No, I don’t, really. She’s not my favorite person. She’s a mean drunk, just like Daddy. And she took it out on me, and she took it out on Clara, and then she took it out on little Raina, and that’s when I stopped talking to her. I know it’s the cycle, and I know she’s trying to break it, but you just don’t...you don’t…” John took in a shaky breath.  
  
“You don’t hit a two-year-old.” Tears started streaming down his cheeks. “I only heard about it when I got back, y’know? There I was, could hardly walk, couldn’t move my arm, could barely even fucking _talk_  with the PTSD, and Clara meets me at the airport with my niece, whom I’ve never even met, and her arm is in a fucking cast. A fucking tiny pink cast on this little baby’s arm. I don’t goddamn fucking care if it was an ‘accident,’ if they were having a fucking argument and drunk Harry is swinging her arms around to make a fucking point and _forgets_  where her daughter is.  
  
“And I had to help Clara get to her mother’s, and then get her set up in another county, and then listen to Harry pounding on my door, night after night, drunk and screaming and begging me to tell her where they were, until I got a non-molestation order for my own fucking sister, which she of course ignored, which got her locked up.  
  
“You don’t hit a two-year-old, Sherlock. Not even accidentally. You just don’t.”  
  
Sherlock pulled John into his arms. John didn’t make a sound, but Sherlock could feel his shirt becoming soaked. He held John tightly. John shook, pressed against him, but did not put his arms around Sherlock. It seemed he didn’t have the energy.  
  
Eventually Sherlock began stroking John’s hair. John had stopped crying and had resettled his face against Sherlock’s neck but showed no signs of moving, and they sat there for over an hour. The breeze quietly surrounded them with the fragrance of eucalyptus and pine trees.  
  
Fog was drifting over the hill when John finally took a deep breath and nuzzled against Sherlock.  
  
“That’s the first time you’ve grieved them,” Sherlock said softly.  
  
“Who.”  
  
“The ones you lost.”  
  
“How did you know.”  
  
Sherlock brushed some hair behind John’s ear. “I observe,” he whispered.  
  


* * *

  
_14:00_  
  
They had decided to walk back to the hotel, preferring to stretch their legs.  When they got back to the room, Sherlock poured John a glass of ice water.  
  
“John, remember how I said I had an idea that I thought might be sexually viable?”  
  
“‘Sexually viable?’ I feel seduced already…”  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes and ignored this. “Have you heard of subspace, John?”  
  
“No, is that some kind of astronomy thing?”  
  
“You are familiar with the practice of BDSM?”  
  
“Whips and chains, like you showed me at that hardware store?”    
  
“No no no, that’s what all the ignorant idiots think.”  
  
“Thanks for that!”  
  
“No John, the real practice is much more subtle, much more elegant than that parody of power exchange that they show on television and in movies. True BDSM, when done properly, can reach into your psyche and your soul and uncover hidden mysteries and previously unknown wells of power. It can be astonishing and wonderful and transporting.”  
  
“So this is something you do regularly, then?”  
  
“Never.”  
  
John blinked.  
“Then how do you know so much about it?”  
  
Sherlock sighed noisily. “I _observe_ , John. Humans are so incredibly _obvious_. Regardless, the point is that I believe that you would benefit extensively from subspace, which is a term for the altered state that can be achieved through the physical and emotional side effects of allowing a controlled power exchange through various traditional submissive methods.”  
  
“You mean you want to tie me up and beat me.”  
  
“Absolutely not, John. That would be a horrible idea and you’d never let me in the first place.”  
  
“Damn fucking right I wouldn’t let you.”  
  
Sherlock gave John a look of “Tell me something else I already know.”  
  
“If you’d let me explain, this might go more quickly. My idea involves absolutely nothing that would activate any of your triggers. In fact, it _relies_  on my explaining every step of what I plan to do first, so that you could agree to it or veto it beforehand; during the session, you would have complete verbal freedom to tell me to stop the session at any time, as well as complete physical freedom to enforce that wish to any level of violence necessary. We both know you could immobilize me in a heartbeat if you had to, probably without doing any permanent damage. So will you listen?”  
  
John was now as far across the room from Sherlock as he could get, pseudo-casually standing in the corner near the door, holding the glass of ice water with his free hand on the doorknob. Sherlock was sitting on the sofa in a relaxed position, keeping his body language open and non-threatening, his posture as small as his tall and lanky frame would allow.  
  
“Sure, I’ll listen.” John’s voice was tense. He was about 30 seconds from leaving the room.  
  
“The scene would use a combination of simulated bondage and sensation play. I would put cuffs on your wrists and ankles but I would _not attach them to anything_. You would feel the illusion of being bound and held, safe, _without_  any movement restriction at all. I would put a small gag in your mouth— _but I would not tie it to anything_. You would get to feel something against your tongue, have the illusion of not having to talk, with the absolute freedom to let it fall out and say “no” or “stop” or shout at me at any moment during the proceedings.”  
  
Sherlock paused. John was breathing hard; he had almost walked out at “cuffs” and “gag” and Sherlock had rushed to the “not attach” and “not tie” parts very quickly.  
  
When John’s breathing eased a bit, he continued.  
  
“If you wished, you could grab hold of the headboard and spread your legs as though you were tied, but it would not be required. I would, of course, not blindfold you; we’ve already established that that is not an option. You could close your eyes if you liked and then open them at any time. If you were enjoying the cuffs, I could tie some scarves loosely around your upper thighs for more of the ersatz bondage.  
  
“By now, we would be building up some layers of sensation that would be keeping some cycles of your conscious mind busy and starting you on your journey into subspace. You might begin to feel somewhat altered; your thoughts might feel a little slower, your breaths might be deeper. Your limbs might feel heavier. Throughout this process, I would be looking out for your safety; it would be my responsibility to watch out for your physical and emotional needs. If anything happened, such as a fire alarm, you would be able to snap out of this state and take care of yourself just as at any other time, and I would be right there to help you get dressed and get out of the building.”  
  
John came away from the door and sat on the very edge of the side of the bed furthest from Sherlock, listening intently.  
  
“Next, we would continue to enhance the sensation play. I would touch you, probably just fingertips to start, all along your skin. It might feel different than the massage; you would probably be in a somewhat altered state, and just like when you are drunk or stoned, your nerves might interpret the touch slightly differently. It might seem more intense. As you sink a little more into subspace, I would help you roll over onto your stomach so that I could play with your back. At this point, things that would ordinarily register as light pain, such as scratching your skin with my fingernails, might simply feel like an interesting sensation. At any time up to this and through this, you would be able to stop anything I was doing by spitting out the gag and telling me to stop, either what I was doing at the moment or to stop the scene altogether. I would stop instantly, without question, without judgement, John. All I want is to make you feel good; if it is not feeling good, there will be no point in continuing.”  
  
Now John was sitting half-cross-legged (with his psychosomatically bad leg stretched out) on the center of the bed, staring at Sherlock.  
  
“If, however, you _are_  feeling good at this point, I might start trying some other things. I might see how some light tapping feels, similar to when I was waking up the skin during the massage. Perhaps some pinching, which when we talk about it now might sound unpleasant or cruel, but when I do it in that context might simply be interesting or actually erotic. In fact, slapping at this stage, on the buttocks or the upper thighs just underneath the buttocks, can be incredibly arousing. We could experiment with that.”  
  
Sherlock watched as John’s pupils visibly expanded, as quickly as another person’s pupils might contract when exposed to bright sunlight after shadow. Fascinating.  
  
“At this point, if you were seeming amenable, the sensation play could become more sexual. I might bring out some lubricant and begin toying with your crease, oiling up your anus. I might find out how much you do or don’t enjoy testicular play.”  
  
John moaned very faintly and tried to surreptitiously adjust himself in his jeans.  
  
“We could go several directions at this point. I could order you to lift yourself onto your knees, so that I could have full access to your cock, which would doubtless be full and thick by then. I could begin fingering you. Or I could simply put on a condom and start fucking you.”  
  
John closed his eyes, made a muffled sound while biting his lower lip, and ground once into the palm of his left hand. “Oh shit.”  
  
Sherlock grinned.  
  
“Do I need to find you some clean pants, John?”  
  
John’s face went red as he nodded.  
  
“I...I think I want to try this subspace thing of yours.”  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> None of the Denny’s I know of (and I know of many) have magic silverware any more. However, a different local chain I frequent _does_  have magic silverware and I am always delighted by it. (For some reason, some diner silverware is magnetic. Various theories have been drunkenly proposed for this, none of which seem particularly plausible.) And by the way, I don’t care how corny the name is, Moons Over My Hammy is the most delicious dish on the Denny’s menu. YUM. I order it regularly without the slightest hint of irony or embarrassment.  
>   
> Apologies to Yeats’ “The Second Coming” and Thomas’ “Do not go gentle into that good night”, whose words were twisted for Sherlock’s snark.  
>   
> Lyrics to “Take on Me” from [AZ Lyrics](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/aha/takeonme.html%20)   
> Recorded by A-Ha; Lyrics written by Magne Furuholmen, Morten Harket, and Pål Waaktaar  
>   
> It’s been a while since I’ve been to the Columbarium—it’s a truly heart-wrenching experience, especially due to the devastation wrought by the epidemic—and I have no idea where Harvey Milk is resting now. I mean absolutely no disrespect to anyone buried there. If you can stand the emotional upheaval, it is fascinating on an historical level and beautiful on an aesthetic one, both architecturally and in arrangements of mementos left by loved ones.


	11. Thursday (cont.): St Regis

  
_Thursday, 14:30_  
  
“I’ll need a few minutes to get things set up. Why don’t you go ahead and undress,” Sherlock suggested.  
  
As John pulled off his clothes, he watched Sherlock fiddle with the thermostat and felt the heat come on. Then Sherlock disappeared into his own little-used room, so John clambered naked onto the bed. Wait. Should he be on top of the duvet, or under the covers? What would Sherlock want? It felt odd being naked on top of the duvet—dirty, somehow—so he squirmed until he was underneath. Then he worried that that looked as though he was ashamed, so he kicked all the bedclothes to the end of the bed.  
  
Then he felt kind of defensive, so he crossed his arms as he lay propped against the pillows. Okay, this was the most uncomfortable he had been since he’d gotten to the hotel. This was a bad idea. This fancy stuff was not for him. Just give him some regular, ordinary love-making, thank you very much. He really was a pretty straight-forward guy: tea and biscuits, meat and potatoes, a little footie on the telly, some kissing and fondling and a how-do-you-do and then fall asleep after was just fine with him. None of these toys and “altered states” and crazy ideas were really necessary—  
  
His grim train of thought was interrupted as Sherlock appeared in the doorway holding a rather large leather bag. This was not the same bag as he had brought over a few days earlier. The bag’s leather went nicely with the leather trousers that Sherlock was now wearing. Both bag and trousers were black and not shiny; rather, they looked like they had been used a bit, like they were working leather; respectable items that were not for show but instead could move and be properly used by their owner. Other than the trousers, Sherlock was bare: his feet were naked on the carpet; his lean muscles were visible in his chest and arms as he moved into the room, and his hair seemed especially artfully tousled. John looked closely, and he was pretty sure Sherlock was wearing subtle eyeliner.  
  
John felt his pulse speed up.  
  
Sherlock plopped the bag rather perfunctorily on the side of the bed and climbed up. As he crawled over John, the leather creaked in a satisfying way. He moved so that he was straddling John’s legs, and John could smell the unique scent of the black material. Sherlock reached into the bag and plucked out a cuff.  
  
“These are leather lined with silk ‘fur’. Why it is acceptable to use leather and not fur is beyond me, but I did not have the energy to argue with the shop proprietor, and I find this ‘fur’ reasonably agreeable.” Sherlock looked John steadily in the eyes. “Are you ready? If so, hold out your arm.”  
  
John looked down. For a moment, his chest clenched. Could he do this? Could he trust this man he’d known for four days? His instincts said yes; his head was screaming for him to run. He thought for a moment. If at any point it seemed like it was going sideways, he should be able to fight his way out of this before Sherlock did anything permanent, like attach him to furniture.  
  
And he had to admit—he hadn’t felt this alive since he had been invalided out. His heart was pounding; his blood was singing. Every muscle felt prepared—for something. He felt aroused. He felt _interested._  
  
Yes, he was ready. He held up his arm.  
  
Sherlock buckled the cuff around it and checked the tightness with his finger, slipping it between the cuff and John’s wrist. Then he rotated the cuff around John, letting him feel the soft fur-like material slipping against his skin. John closed his eyes and concentrated. It was a little alarming, feeling the cuff there. Any moment, Sherlock could attach it to something, lock him down, imprison him.  
  
It was incredibly exciting.  
  
He opened his eyes to see Sherlock watching him carefully. After a moment, Sherlock nodded, as if to himself, and pulled another cuff from the bag. John held up his other arm, and the new cuff was attached to his other wrist. He held his two wrists together, looking at them. If Sherlock wanted—if John was a different person—perhaps Sherlock would lock these cuffs together, in front of him, or maybe behind him, where it would be harder to get out of them. What would that feel like? John had been shot in Afghanistan, but never captured...he had had plenty of nightmares about that, but he knew that he was quite lucky never to have actually undergone that particular ordeal. He felt a little guilty at wondering about the feeling of being handcuffed, and he pulled his arms back to his sides.  
  
“Fantasizing does not mean you want it to happen in real-life, non-consensually. You are not betraying anyone who had it happen to them against their will.”  
  
John looked up, startled. How did Sherlock _do_  that? Was he really so easy to read?  
  
“Mostly deduction, this time. Simple extrapolation of your Army background and what you were probably thinking about, combined with your sudden movement. Don’t be so awed. Ready for your ankles?”  
  
John grinned in spite of himself and waggled a foot.  
  
Sherlock pulled out another cuff, identical to the first two, and crawled around to get at John’s ankle. This resulted in a lovely view of his leather-covered arse, and John groaned. Sherlock chuckled and wriggled himself in a way that managed not to be silly. John reached his fist up to bite on it and was mildly surprised and pleased to see that he had the mobility to do just that.  
  
Then the cuff went around his ankle, and he pulled in a startled breath.  
  
“Okay?” Sherlock asked, turning to look at John while stroking his foot soothingly. John gazed down towards his foot. He couldn’t see the cuff—Sherlock was deliciously blocking his view—but the feeling was quite strange. He had just gotten used to the heaviness surrounding his wrists; the restriction around his ankle seemed to tip the balance for his brain into some kind of warning.  
  
Sherlock moved so that he was sitting at the end of the bed, holding John’s foot in his lap. “Breathe,” he said, but he did not remove the cuff. He stroked John’s leg above the cuff and around where it rested on his ankle. “Let yourself feel these cuffs on you. Let the implications of them sink into you. Remember that they are not attached to anything. You are free to move. In fact, move your limbs around if you need to reassure yourself.”  
  
John decided to do just that, tentatively waving his arms a bit and then his leg. He felt a little foolish; it was obvious, of course, that he wasn’t attached to anything. But proving it to himself made him feel a little better. Sherlock resumed stroking near the ankle cuff. He began twisting it around, letting the fur brush against John’s skin, making him unable to ignore its presence. John felt his penis incongruously filling out a bit. _Must be the softness of that silk fur_ , he thought.  
  
“I think you’re ready for the last cuff,” Sherlock said. His voice was deeper than usual, smooth and soft. It was reassuring. John sort of wished he would keep talking. Sherlock reached over for the bag with his absurdly long arm, not leaving his perch under John’s foot, keeping his other hand on John’s ankle. He gently moved the cuffed leg onto the bed and brought the final free limb into his lap. John felt the soft leather under his heel; felt Sherlock’s long fingers stroking against the top of his foot and rubbing briefly into his arch. He groaned with pleasure.  
  
Then Sherlock was buckling the cuff around his ankle, and John was _caught_. All of his limbs were shackled. He was startled to feel his cock jerk once. He felt a little floaty.  
  
“There you are. Completely held, completely bound. You are doing so, so well, John. You are so very good at this. Do you feel how safe you are? Each limb, securely wrapped. I’ve got you; I’m taking care of you. You are entirely safe; you can let go now. These cuffs will keep you grounded; you don’t need to hold on any more.”  
  
Without realizing it, John let out a long sigh. His body felt very light.  
  
He realized his eyes were closed when he felt Sherlock’s hand travelling slowly up his leg, past his hip, to rest on his chest.  
  
“I’m going to put the gag in now, John. You can let it out any time you like. You are completely in charge of this. But while it is in, you have the option of not talking. You don’t have to say anything at all, but you can make as much noise as you like; you can bite down on this as hard as you want. I will do all the talking for both of us. You can trust me to know what you need. If you are okay with this, open your mouth for me.”  
  
John felt something touch his lips and he automatically opened his jaws. He felt blood pounding in his cock as something smooth and fat was pressed slowly into his mouth, above his tongue. When he closed his lips around it, he realized it felt like a spongy cock. At first it tasted vaguely silicone-ish, but soon it had no flavor at all. He sucked on it, and it was deeply satisfying.  
  
Sherlock’s hand was warm on his chest. His other hand was smoothing John’s hair back from his forehead.  
  
“That was so good, John. You are trusting me so well. You took that gag so beautifully; it was amazing to see. I am so impressed by you; you are so good at this. Just keep floating, John. Just ride with this. Feel the cuffs grounding you; let the gag free you. Listen to my voice and feel my touch. You are allowed to let go, John. I am watching over you.”  
  
Now John felt like he was floating a few inches above the bed. It was amazing. Sherlock’s voice was like a dark, thick, warm river that was buoying him along; John was a little boat bobbing afloat Sherlock’s words without a care as to where he was going, completely secure in the knowledge that he was utterly safe.  
  
“We’re going to try some touch now, John. Focus on my fingertips, let yourself feel my fingers touching your skin, connecting to you.” Sherlock began to stroke his fingertips along John’s chest and belly. It felt like ten pinpoints of St Elmo’s Fire—brilliant light without searing heat. John felt his torso arch to meet Sherlock’s hands.  
  
“Good, John, oh that’s so good. React however you want, let yourself feel, let yourself continue to float. You are safe with me. Feel your cuffs, keeping your limbs anchored to the bed.”  
  
Suddenly John was aware again of the cuffs on his wrists and ankles and it felt as though they were bound to the bed, but he was not frightened. Instead he felt secure, cared for, fundamentally connected to the bed such that no one could get past Sherlock to hurt him. For some reason this feeling of attachment was arousing, and he felt his cock give another hopeful pulse.  
  
“Good boy, good John. You’re being so, so good for me. Here’s a little more sensation.”  
  
John felt Sherlock drawing satisfying, scratchy lines along his arms. It felt so _good_ ; he wanted more. He moaned against the gag. He flexed his pelvis into the air, hoping to convey his need.  
  
“Yes, John, yes. These are the layers we were talking about. I’m going to keep going; you’re going to keep feeling. Just keep floating and let me do my work; keep listening to my voice.”  
  
He felt the lines covering his arms. It was very satisfying; it was like the top layer of his skin was being removed so that he could feel the air more thoroughly. Then the lines were being drawn across his chest. He groaned, and he heard how it was muffled through the gag, which excited him. He sucked against the cock shape in his mouth. That was so satisfying, feeling a cock in his mouth, though it wasn’t as good as actual flesh. He pressed up into Sherlock’s hands, which resulted in more lines all over his chest and belly.  
  
“Good boy. The scratching is good, is it? The scratching is giving you lovely layers of sensation; the cuffs are keeping you grounded. The way you are moving, you actually think you are bound to the bed now. That’s fascinating; that’s really good, John. You are doing so beautifully. You are making me so hard. You are so incredibly sexy right now. Keep following my voice. Now we’re going to do some pinching.”  
  
John felt a gorgeous pain blossom on one of his nipples. At first it was just pain, and then it was incredible pleasure. It felt like his brain was all confused and cross-wired. He wanted more. He tried to say so around the gag.  
  
“Oh God, so good, John. Amazing. Yes. Keep doing that, keep reacting, keep vocalizing. You are a natural; you are so, so good.”  
  
Pain blossomed again on the same nipple and turned almost immediately into psychedelic pleasure. John felt his cock jerk so hard that a little pre-cum drizzled out. He wriggled his chest as best he could with his wrists pinned to the bed, hoping Sherlock would get the idea to work his other nipple.  
  
Sure enough, hard flicks were being given to his other nipple almost immediately. Sparks of pain that flashed into euphoria piled one upon another, showing themselves to John’s inner vision as layers of bright red flowers that morphed almost immediately into rich peach-coloured petals. John whined into his gag and suckled. He felt drool running down his chin, and he pulled at his immobilized wrists in his ecstasy.  
  
“Keep listening to my voice, John. Feel my hand on your chest. I’m going to give you something a little more sustained, help you feel some of this a little longer while I start to do some other things. It might feel a little extra sharp at first; don’t worry, I think it will settle into something lovely, and if it doesn’t, I’ll notice and we’ll take them off. These are nipple clamps, John. That may sound scary, but trust me, I’m watching you, and I think they will be sensational.”  
  
John felt something brush against one of his nipples, then press against it. Then there was a sudden white-hot _bite_ , and he felt a rush of adrenaline. He yelled into the gag and bucked up as far as he could with his wrists stuck to the bed. And then an explosion of endorphins flooded his system. He had barely enough sense left to name them as endorphins before he drifted high above, seeing colours and hearing sounds over Sherlock’s beautiful, wondrous voice which was busy saying things; he couldn’t make out the words but it didn’t matter, because the tones were so amazing, so incredible that he could feed on them and live for days, for weeks on end, doing nothing but listening to Sherlock speak, sitting at his feet and kissing his fingertips and toes.  
  
He was brought back down to his body for a moment as teeth bit into his other nipple, and he welcomed them, screamed his happiness into the cock gag, because he knew what was coming—and there, there it was, that burst, that incredible feeling. He loved Sherlock, so very, very much. How did he live without this incredible creature? He focused on the beautiful sounds coming from the angel underneath, nearly wept when he felt those long, sublime fingers stroking his purpled, throbbing cock far below, marvelled when cum spurted over his chest and onto his own chin. He knew that should have been the climax, as it were, the pinnacle of this experience, but it was a minor joy in the panoply of this paradise of whatever state he was in. He watched as tears streamed from his eyes, feeling fond of the fragile body he inhabited so much of the time. He saw Sherlock remove the nipple clamps—ouch! that really hurt, almost killed his buzz!—and lie down next to him, pressing his body all along John’s, stroking him and murmuring to him, that voice never stopping, a lifeline, gently removing the wrist cuffs, entangling his leather-bound legs with John’s, tenderly rubbing the blood back into his abused nipples, holding him close.  
  
Eventually John was a little sad to find he was back in his body, facing Sherlock.  
  


* * *

  
_16:00_  
  
“There you are, John. Welcome back.”  
  
John nuzzled his face into Sherlock’s neck.  
  
“I’m going to need you to drink some smartwater soon and eat something. How are you feeling?”  
  
John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and held tightly.  
  
“John, give me the gag and tell me how you are doing.”  
  
John buried his face harder against Sherlock. Sherlock put his hand against John’s forehead and carefully pushed his head away. He pulled the gag slowly out by the base, not wanting to hurt John’s teeth. Eventually John let it go and immediately put his face back against Sherlock’s neck.  
  
Sherlock went back to stroking John’s back for a few moments.  
  
_Okay. We’re in the aftercare portion, obviously. And he’s nonverbal; has been for quite some time, that’s to be expected. But something else is going on. He’s clearly unhappy. Did I do something wrong? Did I stop the scene too soon? Did I do something to trigger him? Think! Did I tread on some obscure etiquette rule? Wouldn’t matter, he doesn’t know any of those anyway. He was so happy...he was so clearly in subspace. He was so far gone I was worried. Could he tell I was worried? No, he was too altered. Was the crying bad? No, that was happy crying, release crying._  
  
_Think, Sherlock...aftercare, dehydration, low blood sugar...oh, for fuck’s sake. Subdrop._  
  
“John. John! I need you to listen to me. You’re in subdrop. It happens sometimes, it’s perfectly natural, and it makes sense since this was your first time doing a scene. I’m going to take care of it; I’m going to make it better. But first I need you to drink and eat, and to do that, you’re going to have to let me get up. You do not have a choice about this.”  
  
Sherlock disentangled himself from John, who gave a piteous moan and curled into a ball, facing away from Sherlock. That was alarming. He retrieved the electrolyte water and a candy bar as quickly as possible, shed the attractive but rather stifling trousers, and crawled back into bed, wrapping himself around the trembling John-shaped form.  
  
“I need you to sit up, John. NOW. Come on.” He manhandled John into a sitting position and handed him the water.  
  
“Drink,” he said in his most commanding tone and was relieved when it worked. It was one thing to say all sorts of encouraging things during the scene in a Dommy voice, but he hadn’t really had to try to do any actual power exchange.  
  
When John had downed half the bottle, Sherlock took it from him and handed him the candy. “Eat this, all of it.”  
  
John meekly complied.  
  
“Now, come here.” He pulled the naked John into his arms, snuggling them down under the covers. He himself now had on only black silk briefs, so there was plenty of skin contact. John sighed in relief.  
  
“Some of that was the low blood sugar, but some of it, I think, is being overwhelmed from going from such an altered state back to reality too quickly. I’ll have to work on that transition. That’s on me, and I’m sorry. However, from my point of view, it seemed that overall this was mostly a success in our objectives. When you feel up to talking, I would be very interested in hearing your experience.”  
  
John nodded slightly. Clearly he was not going to be sharing any time soon. Sherlock held back a sigh and adjusted his hold on the fragile man in his arms.  
  
Domming him had been far more rewarding than he had dared to hope. It had been fascinating to watch John’s reactions, both in facial expression and body movements. Once he had bought into the idea, John had gone into it with everything he had; Sherlock had never met anyone before who put his entire being into an experience. It was overwhelming to watch. He had had a moment where he had felt inadequate to direct this event for this amazing person, but then he had remembered who he was and had rallied. How hard could it be? He certainly knew all the theory and had attended enough demonstrations. While it held no interest for him, sexually, he certainly thought it could help John get past some of his inhibitions.  
  
And then he had put the first cuff on John. When he had asked John if he was ready—and John _held his arm out_ —the look in John’s eyes, the complete fucking trust, had been electrifying. Watching the change in John as he buckled the cuff on was the best experiment he’d ever performed. The shift was instantaneous, though John hadn’t really started to sink until Sherlock had gotten that third cuff on. That was when Sherlock had really seen subspace take hold...and that was when the scene had taken hold of him as well.  
  
Of course he had felt the power, before, in being a prostitute. It was an edgy power, a dance between the client and himself. Would he get the money? Would he get beaten up, or worse? But he had the power to fulfill or deny the client’s fantasies, and because he was so very, very good at reading what the client needed, he had power that the client couldn’t begin to understand. And so he had, for the most part, avoided not getting paid and avoided getting beaten up, because he could stop a client in his or her tracks with a few well-chosen words about what they most secretly, desperately desired.  
  
But that was nothing compared to being handed power by someone he really cared for— _okay, let’s be honest. Someone I love._  Being handed power by John, for whom it was a bigger act of trust than for anyone he’d ever known, was so heady that he had nothing to which to compare it. It was better than cocaine; it was better than the best orgasm he’d ever had. He was instantly addicted. Being handed John’s trust, the faith that he would keep John safe, would take John to an altered state and make him feel good; that was something he now craved and would chase for the rest of his life. He was hopelessly hooked.  
  
He had observed, of course, when John had started believing that he was chained to the bed. He had said nothing to encourage that; he would have predicted that it would have soured, or ended, the scene, that it would have been a very bad belief. Instead, it seemed to give John a certain freedom. And the gag had definitely been a good call. The enticing sounds John had made—groans, whines, wordless pleas, little vocal pants, drawn-out moans—they had been incredible; Sherlock wished he had thought to record them for masturbation purposes in the future. And clearly John was quite orally focused, with all the sucking he had done.  
  
Sherlock had had much more planned for the scene, but he had noticed when John had been clean out of his head, when John had stopped hearing him and had drifted far away. John’s poor cock had been weeping pre-cum for so long and had looked so incredibly tantalizing that Sherlock decided to go ahead and bring him off, having taken John much deeper into subspace than he had dreamed possible, and he had brought John to a spectacular finish that he doubted John had even been aware of. Sherlock was left quite wanting, but that was not at all the point, and he was comfortable with that. It was enough to know that contrary to his experience watching demonstrations with strangers, scening with John was absolutely, utterly sexual for him and definitely something he wanted to do again—and again, and again, as often as possible.  
  
He cuddled John a little more and looked down to find that John had fallen asleep. Probably best, given his intense ordeal. Sherlock bent down and kissed John gently on the forehead.  
  
He really had fallen quite hard for this little soldier.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here are [the leather pants](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/303993043574990470/) I used as inspiration  
>   
> Auntie Dalton time:  
>   
> Please do not take any of this as instructional. I have played some as a sub but have never Dommed, have no experience with subdrop, and don’t know all that much about aftercare (and I doubt it would be a good idea to feed candy to a sub with, say, diabetes? ie know the person you are playing with and their needs and proper procedure, etc etc). I think actually playing with someone with John’s issues would require _a lot_  more negotiation than these two did—but then, these two can be absolute idiots, as we well know.  
>   
> And as will be made clear in the next chapter: It really is not a good idea to Dom based just on reading a few books and attending a few demonstrations. Play carefully out there, dear readers, and watch out for yourselves and each other.


	12. Thursday (cont.): St Regis, The Stud, St. Regis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (minor format edit on 16 June 2015)

_Thursday, 17:00_  
  
John slept very deeply. Sherlock watched over him the entire time; he kept John cradled in his arms, kept the covers tucked around John’s lax body, and watched the expressions shift on his face as he dreamed. He was surprised to find that he was not, for even a moment, bored. From time to time, he brushed his fingers softly through John’s hair or leaned down to kiss him tenderly on his temple. Sometimes this made John snuffle and snuggle deeper into his pillow. Or sometimes it made him sigh a little and press closer to Sherlock, which made Sherlock’s heart feel fancifully as though it was swelling, each time. He even found himself, absurdly, with tears in his eyes when the act of rubbing the backs of his knuckles oh-so-gently against John’s cheek made John smile in his sleep.  
  
He had never felt this way about another person, ever. He wanted to protect John, to carve a space inside himself for John and carry him around, safe from the world. He wanted to snarl and claw and, quite frankly, obliterate anyone who would even look askance upon his—what? lover? boyfriend? (ugh!) ... _beloved_? It was all terribly illogical and utterly strange, and yet he didn’t want it to ever end. He didn’t want to ever stop touching John. He wanted to keep John within his arm’s length and his eyes’ sight for the rest of time, and while part of his brain knew that this was absolutely out of character for him, it simply felt reasonable and right. The thought of being parted from John was painful in the extreme, and he resolved to make certain that it did not happen.  
  
Sherlock was watching when John shifted from the last of his REM sleep into the relative peace of a theta wave stage. He saw John’s brain slide slowly into consciousness, easing back into awareness of the world. Sherlock was thrilled; he had never gotten to observe this happening in another human. Eventually, John’s eyes opened, leisurely, and immediately found Sherlock’s.  
  
And John beamed happily.  
  
Sherlock was now certain that his heart was going to burst with joy.  
  
“How do you feel?,” he asked quietly.  
  
“Wonderful,” John said lazily. Then he nuzzled at Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock held John tightly and stared blankly at the wall over John’s shoulder, unable to fathom how this sweet, troubled man could look at him as though Sherlock was worthy of him, as though he wasn’t a broken-down, bitter drug addict of a whore who offended and insulted anyone within hearing distance and, as he had been assured by his parents and his brother so many times, was entirely too clever to be liked (much less loved) by anyone, ever. He took his own turn to press his face into John’s neck and was quiet for some time.  
  
John hummed softly, comfortingly, and stroked his hands up and down Sherlock’s back.  
  


* * *

  
_17:30_  
  
“Sherlock. I’m famished.”  
  
“It’s always food with you, isn’t it?” Sherlock said fondly. “I’m going to feed you tonight,” he went on to declare grandly.  
  
“Wait, which kind of feeding?”  
  
“Both, dear John, both.”  
  
“Hm.”  
  
“Curry?”  
  
“I could murder one. Get naan.”  
  
“How do you feel about cilantro?”  
  
“Oh god, cannot stand the stuff. Why?”  
  
“It’s on _everything_  here. I’ll tell them to leave it off; we’ll see what we get.”  
  
“Why do they use cilantro?”  
  
“It’s the latest foodie trend, and this is a foodie town. It’s in _every_  cuisine. A reasonable minority taste it as something unpleasant, so I thought I should check. What does it taste like to you?”  
  
“Dish soap.”  
  
“A common complaint.”  
  
Sherlock called a delivery joint and ordered curries and a masala, naans and papadums, samosas and pakoras. Within ten minutes, there was a knock at the door.  
  
“How did you get that so fast?”  
  
“They know me,” Sherlock said with a grin as he pulled on a pair of jeans. “I tip very, very well.”  
  
In fact, he and the delivery man kissed each other on both cheeks, which John was not well pleased about. Sherlock caught John’s expression and laughed aloud.  
  
“Oh shut up,” John griped.  
  
Sherlock set about laying out the feast on the coffee table, plopping cartons and paper plates, plastic forks and napkins in a chaotic jumble. He also set out six icy cold bottles of Kings Black label pilsner.  
  
“Oh, beer! First rate!”  
  
Sherlock didn’t bother to explain that this was a brand only available in Goa and that he was the only person outside India who was able to obtain these bottles, thanks to some very specific connections. He also didn’t explain that he had carefully considered the strain John had been through that afternoon and decided that the low alcohol content, combined with the water he planned to convince John to drink, should be tolerable for John’s system.  
  
Instead, he carefully guided John, who was now in some comfortable boxers, to sit on the sofa. He sat next to him and picked up a box and a fork.  
  
John giggled a little.  
  
“This is silly, Sherlock.”  
  
“Perhaps. But let’s give it a try, shall we?”  
  
Sherlock speared a chunk of chicken, let some of the sauce drip off, and lifted it to John’s lips. John gave Sherlock a look that clearly said he was just humouring him, but he opened his mouth and accepted the bite. Then he moaned.  
  
“Oh, this is fantastic.”  
  
“Nothing but the best for my darling.”  
  
They both looked startled at the endearment.  
  
Sherlock coughed and reached over for one of the papadums, breaking it into smaller pieces. He ate a piece himself and then handed one to John, who took it with his own fingers.  
  
“Here, try a Kings.” Sherlock decided that pouring the drink into John’s mouth would be going too far. This was all a bit more complicated, more emotionally strange than he had expected. John took the beer and gulped down a healthy swig, then another.  
  
“Oh, yeah, that’s very nice.”  
  
“Let’s give this a real try.” Sherlock moved so that he was hovering over John, his knees on the sofa cushions on either side of John’s legs. He took the lamb marsala box in one hand and pulled a piece out with his fingers. Staring into John’s eyes, he tucked the morsel into John’s mouth.  
  
This was different. John was watching him with an echo of the mood of the afternoon; Sherlock felt as though he was in charge again, as though John was trusting him to direct what came next, to take care of John’s needs. It was a heady feeling, and he saw something shift in John’s eyes, a subtle change so that he was no longer Everyday John, lightly mocking this experiment, ready to jump up and do the next thing, but he was now this new Sub John, pliant, waiting upon Sherlock. He felt the shift reflected down in his cock, and impulsively he leaned in to kiss John as he chewed, licking at the spicy sauce on John’s lips. John closed his eyes and sighed.  
  
“Now some naan.” He dipped it in the curry and smeared it over John’s mouth before pushing it in. John let his jaw fall open and Sherlock pressed two fingers onto John’s tongue, keeping him still, making him taste but not chew. John responded by sucking on the fingers, and it was odd to feel the bread inside John’s mouth; intimate and new.  
  
What else would John let him do?  
  
He withdrew his fingers, fastidiously wiping them on a paper napkin, and plucked a samosa from a box. He held it up to John, who started to bite into it, but then Sherlock pulled it away. John followed, but Sherlock only allowed the tiniest bite of one corner. John glared at him. So, not entirely in subspace. Sherlock chuckled. He toyed with John, bringing the fried pocket of spicy food close and then pulling it away, over and over, until John gave up and sat back against the sofa, arms crossed. Sherlock put one corner in his teeth and leaned in, holding it up to John’s mouth, who began to nibble at it from Sherlock’s lips. As he ate, Sherlock reached down and casually rubbed John’s cock through the cotton of his briefs. John became agreeable again, and when he finished the samosa, he was kissing Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock pulled back and took a large mouthful of beer, then carefully pressed his lips to John’s and let it trickle into John’s mouth. He ground up against John, pushing his jeans-clad erection against John’s vulnerable cloth-covered penis. John swallowed carefully.  
  
“Look at you. You’ll take whatever I give you, won’t you. So docile, so biddable. You’ll let me feed you, water you, pet you. You’re so very, very good, John. Slip deeper under for me. Let me control you.”  
  
Sherlock leaned down and murmured directly in John’s ear.  
  
“Let me into your mind.”  
  
Suddenly, Sherlock found himself on the floor. John was on the other side of the coffee table, breathing hard. Sherlock looked up to see the face of Combat John, the same face John had worn outside the Columbarium. John’s hands were in fists, but he was utterly still; he looked deceptively calm.  
  
“Get out. Get out of my room right now.”  
  
“What—”  
  
“Right. The fuck. Now.”  
  
Sherlock stood. It was clear he had overstepped a boundary; now was not the time for discussion or reasoning. He wasn’t sure that he was supposed to leave John in this state—after all, as the Dom, he was supposed to look out for John’s well-being—but John was making his wishes pretty clear, and it seemed that he was quite prepared to back up his request with some pretty powerful mayhem. Sherlock moved through the doorway into his own room and quietly closed the door.  
  


* * *

  
_18:00_  
  
The moment Sherlock was out of the room, John pulled on trousers and a shirt, shoved his wallet, passport, and his room key into pockets, and left. He found himself on Market Street with no memory of how he got there.  
  
A cab pulled up in front of him. _Sherlock’s cab magic must be rubbing off on me_ , he thought. Mindful of the last time he went stumbling about in a state, he climbed in and named the first place he could think of:  
  
“Take me to The Stud.”  
  
He’d read about The Stud in a few of the racier travel blogs about San Francisco when he’d been preparing for the conference, and the flamboyant name had stuck in his head. He’d never dreamed of going to the raunchy bar, but now he realized there was nowhere else he wanted to be. Sherlock wanted to play gay sex games, did he? Well, he’d show Sherlock just how well he could play gay sex games. Let Sherlock come and try to find him at a naughty gay bar. Maybe _John_  would dress in leather. Maybe _John_  would wield a whip and go around telling people what to do and where to go.  
  
John leaned over, rested his elbows on his knees, and put his face in his hands. What had happened to him? How had this week gotten so out of control? He realized that he hadn’t been apart from Sherlock since he’d arrived at the St Regis on Sunday. Was he in a trance? Under some spell, some form of hypnosis Sherlock had woven over him? It was good, this, getting away from him for a while. Stretch his legs, remember that he was a perfectly capable adult. A soldier, for fuck’s sake. He’d killed men. He could take care of himself.  
  
Shit. Had he hurt Sherlock? The last half hour was a blur. He remembered Sherlock feeding him. He remembered feeling foolish, then feeling aroused, then being angry beyond reason. Sherlock had just kept pushing, pushing, wanting to get in his fucking head, worse than any therapist. It was invasive; it was non-consensual. It had _hurt_. He had trusted Sherlock. For a moment, he hoped that he _had_  injured Sherlock, but almost immediately his doctor ethics kicked in and he realized he should have checked on the young man, made sure that he was okay before he left the hotel.  
  
“Twenty bucks,” said the driver. John dug into his wallet and paid, trying to mentally calculate the appropriate tip, then gave up and handed her two twenties before he stepped out and looked up at the club’s entrance. It didn’t look too good. It was tiny, and seedy, and music was blaring out the door. He turned around, but the cab was gone.  
  
He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and walked in.  
  
“John!” a high voice squealed.  
  
John peered into the well-lit, strangely underpopulated room that smelled, unsurprisingly, of stale beer. What was with all the seedy joints in San Francisco being well-lit?  
  
“Molly?!”  
  
The woman from the Zen Center came running over to him and grabbed his arm. Tonight she was dressed in jeans and a rather tight black t-shirt. Her shining brown hair was loose around her shoulders, and she wore a necklace with a small double-headed axe on it.  
  
“John, it’s so good to see you! Where’s Sherlock? Er—I mean, it’s lovely to see you just for yourself! You don’t have to have Sherlock with you for me to be happy to see you. I just—I didn’t expect one of you without the other. But come in! Have you been to The Stud before? I bet you haven’t! Doing a little gay touristing? It’s a good place to come, it’s where everyone comes! But I don’t mean ‘come’, ew, that’s probably gross, though maybe true too, I don’t know, I don’t go in the men’s bathrooms, hahaha!”  
  
John couldn’t hold back a smile at Molly’s clumsy, well-meaning patter.  
  
“Come on, come to the bar, let me buy you a drink! What would you like?”  
  
John thought. “You know what? I’d really like a Glenfiddich. But of course I’ll pay for it.”  
  
“Nonsense! I’d love to get you a Glenfiddich. Mark, a double for my friend John here, please.”  
  
“Coming right up.”  
  
Molly leaned uncomfortably close to John and said messily in his ear: “Mark’s a good friend; he almost never charges me for anything, so don’t sweat it. It’s all good.” She leaned back and took a good look at John. In a much lower, gentler voice, she said,  
  
“Oh. You’re here without Sherlock for a reason, aren’t you? Something went wrong, didn’t it?”  
  
John stared at her in astonishment for a moment; then he was horrified to feel tears fill his eyes. Molly took his hand and squeezed it.  
  
“Don’t worry, hon. Many men have come to this very bar to unburden their hearts about a man who done them wrong.”  
  
John swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. Mark put the shots down in front of him and, disregarding the honor of the whiskey, John threw one back without tasting it.  
  
“You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to. But I’ve heard it all, and I’m here to listen, if you think it would help.”  
  
John coughed roughly. “But you’re Sherlock’s friend.”  
  
“Doesn’t mean I don’t know that he can be a bastard sometimes.”  
  
John looked a bit shocked.  
  
“You think I’m some kind of religious saint, don’t you, John? I’m a practitioner and employee at the Zen Center. That’s not really a religion, though many of us are also Buddhists. It’s a _practice_ , a way of living. We try really hard _not_  to be judgemental.” She stroked his hand in a friendly way.  
  
John sipped properly at the second shot and thought quietly.  
  
“I think I would like to talk a bit, if that’s okay,” he said under the heavy beat of some techno music.  
  


* * *

  
_St Regis, 18:00_  
  
Sherlock heard the door of John’s room slam and held himself back from following. John needed space. Maybe being on his own for an hour or two would be good for him, help him get some perspective.  
  
Maybe he himself needed some perspective. He really wasn’t sure what had gone wrong. The scene that afternoon had been spectacularly fulfilling; why couldn’t he sustain it this evening? Why had John taken to it earlier and rejected it now?  
  
Sherlock decided to take this alone time to do some meditation. He realized he hadn’t been apart from John since John had arrived. Alone with his thoughts while John slept, yes, but not _alone_. Constant companionship was not a natural state for him. Perhaps he was off his game. And he hadn’t gone this long without daily meditation for...well, at least 11 months, 6.5 days.  
  
He exchanged his jeans for some cotton sweatpants and pulled on a soft, warm jumper. He grabbed a pillow off the bed and sat on the floor, his back to the wall, and faced the windows. He crossed his legs, loosely, and let his hands rest, palms down, on his knees. (He did not buy into the idea that his palms needed to be facing up to be “open to the gifts of the universe.” He found that being physically comfortable and relaxed was far more important for achieving the ideal theta wave state than some new-age superstition.)  
  
Letting his gaze settle into the distance, he focused on his breath in the traditional way for the simple reason that 4 counts in, 8 counts out convinced his amygdala that he was not being chased by a tiger in the savannah but instead was safe enough to breathe slowly, and this engaged his parasympathetic nervous system, which was a calming goal of meditation.  
  
_Why was John so upset? Was it because he thought it was silly for me to feed him? Was it beneath his dignity?_  
  
_Wait—I’m supposed to be meditating._  
  
_In, 2, 3, 4…_  
  
_Out, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8._  
  
_In, 2, 3...he let me put the lamb in his mouth with my fingers. He liked it; he sucked on them. He let me keep him from chewing. Fuck that was arousing._  
  
_No, no thoughts._  
  
_Let them drift past. Damn!_  
  
_No, no judgement…_  
  
_Out, 2, 3, 4, 5...the feel of his lips around my fingers, so soft, like they felt when they were around my cock…_  
  
_Let the thought flow past, like a river._  
  
Sherlock blinked slowly and realized he was breathing shallowly. Stress breathing. He took a slow, deep breath, and tried to let his mind drift clean.  
  
_Empty_.  
  
_Empty_.  
  
_I said he was “docile.” I bet that wasn’t good. I wonder where he is now? I am very uncomfortable with him being out in the city on his own. It’s a foreign country, I haven’t shown him how to get around, which sections to avoid...he’s so fragile, so prone to panic attacks, what if he has one and I’m not there?_  
  
_Wait, shit. I’m no help to anyone if I’m not calm._  
  
_Breathe._  
  
_Focus on my body._  
  
_Feel my hair._  
  
Molly had helped Sherlock discover that, unexpectedly, if he concentrated on being aware of the existence of his hair follicles, it was an immediate grounding technique. It was a somatic awareness that could pull him out of an anxiety spiral any time. It didn’t lead to instant meditation, but it was a good start and sometimes helped when he was having trouble clearing the busy thoughts.  
  
For a few moments, he was able to focus on the sensation of his own scalp. As he concentrated on it, he could feel individual sections of his head almost tingling with awareness. He could feel that he had hair above his forehead, behind his ears, at the crown of his head, marching down to the back of his neck. It was pleasant and reassuring. He started breathing more deeply without realizing it.  
  
_It was so amazing to see John flying. People talk about subspace, but they don’t come close to describing what it is like to witness it in person. John was transformed. It was like he was glowing. I never imagined a human could be like that._  
  
_Bugger, I’m thinking again!_  
  
_No, compassion._  
  
_Gentle._  
  
_Come, Sherlock, gently let these thoughts drift away._  
  
_Breathe._  
  
_I should—._  
  
_What about—._  
  
_Will John—. How—. If—. Can—._  
  
His brain finally clicked over to the state where instead of being unable to let the thoughts go, he was unable to hang onto more than the start of a thought.  
  
_Will—_  
  
_I’d—_  
  
_The—_  
  
And then the buzzing started. This was why Sherlock generally kept his eyes open; if he closed them, he often simply fell asleep. The buzzing was very similar to the state just before hallucinatory thought or lucid dreaming began. There were no actual thoughts; just a pleasant static that felt as though it was located in the upper third of his cranium. Over the past year, he had been able to extend this state to 30 minutes and longer, and he let out a sigh that no one heard and fell into emptiness.  
  


* * *

  
_The Stud, 19:00_  
  
Molly watched John as Mark placed something that looked like wine in front of her. Or maybe it was grape juice; it was in an awfully large, ordinary glass, was quite purple, and was producing plenty of perspiration that slid down to soak the tiny bar napkin underneath.  
  
John ended up relaying most of the story of his and Sherlock’s time together that week, hinting at but not detailing his erectile issues and the reasons for his PTSD, but expounding upon the rest. He already knew that she was aware of Sherlock’s occupation, so he wasn’t worried about outing him.  
  
“And so today, he said he had an idea that he thought he would get me past my...issues. And he asked if I’d ever heard of subspace.”  
  
“Oh, scening! Yum!”  
  
“You...know about this stuff?”  
  
“Sure, most of us in San Francisco and the Bay Area are pretty aware of BDSM, if not actual participants in it. I take it this was new to you?”  
  
“Entirely.” By now, John was working on his second pint of a local brew. He took a sip and then leaned a little closer to Molly. The bar had filled up while they talked; there were couples on the dance floor, almost entirely male, writhing and grinding and laughing and kissing. He glanced over and stared for a minute, marvelling at the variety of clothing and hair styles people were sporting and the boldness of the dancing being displayed. For a moment he had a sharp pang, wishing he and Sherlock were on that floor, doing some of that dancing. He looked back at Molly, and he was sure she read his thoughts.  
  
“Molly. It was amazing. I thought it was going to be all, tie me up and beat me, which I couldn’t have allowed and would have hated. But he...he came up with this idea...he put on cuffs, you see, but didn’t attach them to anything. He…” John felt himself flush, but forced himself to keep talking; maybe it would help him get some perspective.  
  
He almost whispered the next part into Molly’s ear. “He put a _gag_  in my mouth. A...a _cock_  gag.” He leaned back to see if she was shocked. She was not; she was watching him quietly, with raised, encouraging “Go on?” eyebrows.  
  
“But he didn’t attach it to anything. It was...it was comforting, to feel it in my mouth...it meant I didn’t have to say anything...but I _could_ , if I needed to, see, I could just let it fall out and tell him off if I needed to. Hell, I could get up and walk out the room—well, put on some trousers and walk out the room—any time I wanted. But Molly. _I didn’t want to_.”  
  
He drank some more ale pensively.  
  
“Very clever, that Sherlock,” Molly said. “I wouldn’t have thought of that. The illusion of being bound—the freedom of feeling held, combined with the freedom of movement. Fantastic! You liked it, right?”  
  
John gave Molly a look. “Oh, boy did I ever. I guess I was kind of...what did he call it, ‘altered’, by then? I still thought he was going to beat me or something. But he had said he would tell me everything he was going to do before he did it. And Molly, oh my god, that was maybe the best part. You know his voice?”  
  
Molly whimpered a little. “I am familiar with that exquisite instrument of torture, yes.”  
  
“Right? He just kept talking and talking...it was like his voice was wrapping my whole body up in liquid sex.”  
  
Molly grabbed John’s forearm and groaned in envy.  
  
“So then he started doing something...what did he call it, something about layers...I wasn’t really able to pay attention much at that point, but he was touching me and, I think, maybe scratching me with his nails? But it didn’t hurt, which was weird, it just felt good…”  
  
“Sensation play?”  
  
“Yeah, that sounds right. And then he started pinching, um…”  
  
“Your nipples?”  
  
John blushed again. “Yeah. Those. And. Um. That worked pretty well. And then he put some kind of bitey thing on them.”  
  
“Nipple clamps.”  
  
“Yeah, I think that’s what he called them. And I’m not really sure what happened after that.”  
  
“Oh John...sounds like you had an amazing scene.”  
  
“I think so? I don’t remember a lot of it...but I remember feeling really nice, kind of, above my body? And...well...this is really embarrassing. But Molly...I felt _so_  in love with him. I was so fucking grateful, it’s sickening to think about. I wanted to...shit.” John rubbed at his face. “I wanted to _worship_  him.”  
  
Molly smiled at John softly. “Honey, that’s a pretty standard reaction to a good scene. Don’t feel bad about it. You two connected. It’s very, very intense. It can be much more intimate than ‘vanilla’ sex. That surprises a lot of people who are new to it.”  
  
“Well, it was pretty weird, I’ll say that. Though it didn’t feel weird at all at the time.”  
  
Molly nodded seriously.  
  
“And then something bad happened...all of a sudden I felt really sad, and empty. And then Sherlock left the bed and I thought I was going to die. I know it sounds melodramatic but that’s how it felt.”  
  
“Subdrop.”  
  
“That’s what Sherlock called it! He made me drink something, and he made me eat a candy bar, and then he held me for a while, and I guess I fell asleep.”  
  
“Sounds like he’s a pretty good Dom.”  
  
“He says he never did it before.”  
  
Molly blinked.  
  
“He took you that deep and he never Dommed before? He’d been trained then, yes?”  
  
“Uh, he didn’t mention it. Said he’d read some books, been to some demonstrations?”  
  
A dark look crossed over Molly’s face, and she visibly struggled to control it. Then she sighed, closed her eyes, and seemed to go inside herself for a minute or two. When she opened her eyes again, she just looked sad.  
  
“John,” she said, laying her hand gently on his arm again, “what happened next?”  
  
“Well...I woke up from my nap, and he ordered some food. And then he said he was going to feed me, which I thought was weird, but I decided to play along. And then it was kind of fun, and kind of sexy, but then he started getting really pushy. And he said something about...let’s see. Something about how ‘docile’ I was, and what a good ‘pet’ I was, and how he wanted me to ‘let him into my brain’ or something like that. And I ordered him the fuck out my room and came here.”  
  
Molly pulled John into a hug, which startled him. It was awkward, the both of them balancing on bar stools, but Molly’s arms were warm and supportive around him, and after a moment he relaxed into it. He could feel her soft breasts against his chest; her hair smelled like apple shampoo. She rubbed her hands softly in circles on his back, and he closed his eyes and let himself be held. He really was rather tired out.  
  
Finally, she pulled away.  
  
“John, let me explain a little about what happened. Sherlock is very, very smart, and he is convinced that he can learn anything from books. Which is sometimes true, and sometimes not. In the BDSM community, we generally do not encourage Doms to play—which is what we call doing a scene, or taking someone into subspace—without a lot of experience. They are supposed to sub first, so that they know what it feels like. Often they have a mentor who teaches them how to do things so that they don’t fuck up and hurt a sub. It’s not at all surprising that he tripped you over into subdrop. And that’s okay; he recognized it immediately and dealt with it well, it sounds like. He was prepared for aftercare, and it sounds like he respected your needs and your boundaries during the scene.  
  
“But he got a little too full of himself. He got a taste of power and wanted to continue the scene after it was done, without getting your explicit consent, without checking to see how you felt about it.”  
  
“But—I was getting hard! So, I was consenting, right?”  
  
“Not exactly. Arousal does not equal consent. You know that a rape victim can be physically aroused, right?”  
  
“Yes…”  
  
“I’m not saying you were a victim of rape, or that you were a victim at all. I’m saying that just because you were getting into it does not mean that he was right to be initiating a scene so soon after your first experience, and doing it so clumsily. It was a major mistake and clearly it hurt you, emotionally, or else you wouldn’t be here.”  
  
John wanted to rush to Sherlock’s defense, but he took a sip of beer and thought about what Molly was saying, instead.  
  
“You know I love Sherlock, darling,” Molly continued. “I’m not saying he did this with any ill will or bad intent. I think he did it because he enjoyed the scene so very much and was eager to try it again. It’s just because he is so darn inexperienced! Before you two play again, it would be good if you could talk to some people who are in the scene, who have a lot more experience than you. It would be good if you could read some books yourself, maybe attend a few demos, start to think about what you might like. It’s good that Sherlock’s scene worked for you, but maybe that’s not all that you’d like, or maybe you wouldn’t want that every time. Maybe you’d like to be the Dom once in a while! You are both so very, very new to this, and I’m so, so happy that your first experience was a positive one, but I think it’s time to put on the brakes and take things more slowly and naturally now.”  
  
John realized he didn’t like hearing this. He hadn’t had any time to process what had happened this afternoon, and as Molly was saying this, part of him rebelled. He totally wanted to do all that again! He’d never felt anything like it...he’d never felt as close to anyone as he’d felt to Sherlock. He’d never felt so _free_. He wanted to go right back to the hotel and do it all over again, this minute.  
  
But then he remembered the things Sherlock had said while he’d fed him, and he knew that Molly had some good points.    
  


* * *

  
_St Regis, 20:00_  
  
Sherlock was sat at the desk in his room, typing on his laptop. He was sketching out a plan for returning to London.  
  


  1. _Call Mycroft._



  
And say what?  
  
“Hi, I’ve met a lovely man that I’m going to marry and fuck all the time, so I need you to call off Moriarty, preferably have him eliminated somehow, and by the way I’m clean and I was a whore for a while but now I’m just going to fuck John and selected others so don’t worry your pretty little brain over it, thanks ever so much!”  
  
Sherlock sighed.  
  
He knew he should be able to figure this out. He was smarter than all but three other people on the planet. It was just that Moriarty...he sort of...whenever he thought about him…  
  
Sherlock realized that he was almost unable to breathe, and his heart was racing. His body was covered in cold sweat.  
  
_Ah. Now_ I’m _the one having a panic attack._  
  
He forced himself to do the slow breathing he had just been practicing in his meditation. It was incredibly difficult; his body was urging him to _run, run_ NOW. He got up and walked as unhurriedly as he could around the room, clenching and unclenching his fists. Periodically he growled, trying to release some of the tension.  
  
Finally he knocked on John’s door.  
  
“John? John, are you there? I’m sorry to disturb you, but I seem to be having a bit of a medical emergency. ...John?”  
  
He tried the doorknob; it was unlocked. As slowly as he could make himself, he opened the door and peered in. No John.  
  
_Goddamn it, John. Where are you? I’m in a crisis here, I actually_ need _a doctor. Fuck._  
  
“JOHN!”  
  


* * *

  
_The Stud, 20:00_  
  
“May I have this dance?”  
  
John spun around on his barstool to find a young man standing near him, holding out a hand. Molly giggled. The lad was quite handsome: slim, with dark eyes and full lips. Black hair curled rakishly over his forehead and he was sporting a very “come hither” grin. A sleeveless black leather t-shirt, black jeans, and a kicky blue scarf completed the look.  
  
“Go on, it’s only Felix,” Molly said, nudging John. “Funkytown” started playing. John, embarrassingly, found himself squealing.  
  
“I _love_  this song!”  
  
“Well, come on then!” Felix said in a seductive, surprisingly British accent.  
  
Felix pulled John off the stool and into a very close and grindy sort of dance. John laughed and went with it. Felix turned around and pushed his sweetly tight ass against John’s crotch and cheers went up amongst the tightly packed dancers around them. John put his hands on Felix’ waist and swayed his hips.  
  
“Go John, go John,” yelled Molly from the sidelines.  
  


* * *

  
_St Regis, 20:15_  
  
Sherlock lay on the carpet, trying to time his pulse. _It’s not a heart attack. It’s never a heart attack._  He couldn’t seem to count the seconds at the same time as his heart beats, though. He never had trouble with that, able to keep the two counts in his head separate, effortlessly. Usually.  
  
He scrabbled for his phone. After several tries, he was able to call the number he wanted.  
  
“Please...come to the hotel. I think I’m dying.”  
  


* * *

  
_20:35_  
  
Molly paid the cab driver as John ran to the front door.  
  
“Wait, John! I don’t know your room number!”  
  
He stood holding the door open, actually groaning in frustration, as she finally exited the cab and ran to catch up.  
  
“Come on, come on,” he yelled as they waited at the elevator.  
  
Finally they burst into the room.  
  
Sherlock was curled in a ball on the floor, shaking. John knelt at his side and felt for the pulse at his neck.  
  
“Pulse fast and weak,” he said aloud by habit. He pulled Sherlock’s eyelids gently apart, yanked out his phone, and activated the light. “Pupils normal and reactive. Sherlock! Did you take anything?”  
  
“John…”  
  
“Sherlock! Did you take anything?”  
  
“No...I don’t keep anything around, I’m afraid to…”  
  
“Molly, get some water out of the refrigerator there. Sherlock, what happened? Are you bleeding anywhere? Are you injured?”  
  
Sherlock clutched at John.  
  
“Panic attack,” he said in a small voice. “Or heart attack. I couldn’t tell. I couldn’t time my heartbeats, John. I tried, I really tried.” He looked up at John with red-rimmed eyes, desperate.  
  
John smoothed his sweat-drenched hair back from his forehead. “It’s okay now, Sherlock. I’m here. You’re not having a heart attack. You’re okay.”  
  
Molly handed over the water.  
  
“Here, drink this. Slowly. Sip it.” He helped Sherlock to a sitting position, propped against the bed.  
  
“Now, try to breathe more slowly. Look at me, Sherlock. Look. You are okay. You are safe. Molly and I are here; nothing is going to happen to you. Molly, close and lock the door, please. Come sit down here on the floor with us. See Molly, darling? We’re both here. Molly, take his hand.”  
  
Sherlock looked over at Molly. He was shaking hard now.  
  
“I...I’m s-sorry I h-had to c-call. I-I d-didn’t know w-what to do.”  
  
“It’s okay, Sherlock. We’ve been through this before. I’m your emergency call, you know that,” Molly said quietly, stroking his hand much the way she had John’s an hour before. John glanced up at Molly but resolved to ask about “I’m your emergency call” another time.  
  
He rearranged himself so that he was sitting propped against the bed, too, and wrapped his arm around Sherlock, who immediately curled in against John without letting go of Molly. They sat that way in the quiet for a while.  
  
When Sherlock had stopped shaking, John asked him again.  
  
“What happened, Sherlock? What set this off?” He knew this might trigger Sherlock again, but he and Molly were there to watch over him, and he needed to know.  
  
Sherlock took a deep breath.  
  
“I have to call Mycroft, warn him that I’m coming back,” he said, sounding a bit more steady. “I don’t...I don’t have any ideas for how we will ensure my safety. I _should_. But...I can’t, I can’t _think_  when it comes to...when it comes to matters around _him_. John...John, I’m sorry, but—”  
  
John held him tighter.  
  
“It’s okay, Sherlock. We’ll figure something out. Or we’ll just stay here. We don’t have to solve it tonight.”  
  
“B-but we do. You’re leaving in two days—one and a half, really. And...and I can’t bear the thought of...of being without you, John. I can’t...I can’t be parted from you. Something will happen, I know it. And I’ll never see you again.” Sherlock’s face began to crumple. Molly scrunched over so that she was pressed against Sherlock’s other side.  
  
“And you won’t want to live here, I can tell, you have to be in London. So I have to go back to London. But when I get there...Mor— _he_  will know, and...and I’ll be…” Sherlock began hyperventilating again.  
  
“Who?” John mouthed silently at Molly, who just shook her head at John.  
  
“John went to The Stud,” Molly said rather loudly.  
  
Sherlock looked over at her.  
  
“Beg your pardon?”  
  
“John went to The Stud. He busted his Stud cherry.”  
  
“Wait a minute.” Sherlock sounded very much like his old self. “When you say ‘busted his cherry...’”  
  
“Oh, no, he didn’t, I mean, not like _that_. I was watching him the whole time, there were no illicit blow jobs, not even any hand jobs. I mean, he _did_  have a really sexy dance with Felix.”  
  
Now Sherlock turned all the way around to confront Molly.  
  
“You let him dance with _Felix_?!”  
  
“Aw, he’s only here for a week! He ought to get to experience San Francisco just like anybody!”  
  
“But—but _Felix_! He might as _well_  have had the hand job _and_  the blow job and maybe a rimming to boot!”  
  
“Hey!” John protested.  
  
“Did he grind him?”  
  
“Oh, yeah, there was some grinding going on.”  
  
“Molly!” Sherlock chastised.  
  
“Molly!” John objected.  
  
“Felix is soooo pretty…” Molly sighed.  
  
Sherlock’s impending second panic attack was broken.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mark is an homage to a very patient bartender who put up with me and an absurdly mismatched boyfriend in my last years of undergrad. He was wicked cool and looked out for us. Goth knows why.  
>   
> I have no idea if there is an “honor of the whiskey.” I don’t even drink whiskey. But if there isn’t an honor of the whiskey, at least for Glenfiddich (which, by the by, horrible aforementioned ex-boyfriend taught me about), seems like there should be.  
>   
> Felix is, of course, the fabulous Felix Dawkins, played by Jordan Gavaris, from “Orphan Black”. You can see a picture in the outfit I used [here](http://41.media.tumblr.com/f063ecb451ccb49a80241d7908c50390/tumblr_mvupqaHRpc1r3oy4vo1_1280.jpg)  
>   
> [Here’s an animated GIF of Felix dancing with Alison](http://31.media.tumblr.com/784a0f28292dcc05207cfe77b35becb3/tumblr_n7hguqzF6J1rgvfxho4_500.gif) that inspired me for John’s lucky dance  
>   
> I have no idea if John would be able to tell that easily that Sherlock was not having a heart attack. Let’s just go with it for the story. :)


	13. Thursday (cont.)/Friday: St Regis, Mel's

  
_Thursday, 22:00_  
  
They decided that John would have to make the call to Mycroft, explain the situation, and ask for his help in coming up with a plan. Sherlock was extremely unhappy with this approach, but there was nothing to be done about it. And they could not call until the next morning; while Sherlock had no qualms about calling Mycroft at 03:00 London-time, John flat-out refused. So Molly left them when she was certain that Sherlock was past his crisis, and when they found themselves alone again, John forced a large bottle of blue Gatorade on Sherlock.  
  
“I don’t need this, John, and for God’s sake, it’s _blue_.”  
  
“You _do_  need this, it’s got sugars that your body is craving and you _will_  drink it, and I don’t care that it’s blue, it’s fun.”  
  
Sherlock gave John a very dark look.  
  
“Just fucking drink it.”  
  
Sherlock sighed deeply and, acting as though he had been asked to drink bleach, began to sip at it cautiously.  
  
“We should probably talk about what happened tonight, but maybe that can wait until tomorrow. It’s been a pretty tiring day for both of us.”  
  
“I’m perfectly capable of discussing it tonight.”  
  
“Well, that’s great, but I don’t think _I_  am. Could we just table it until tomorrow and pretend for now that everything is pleasant and fine?”  
  
Sherlock’s face went blank. John plowed on.  
  
“I really just want to crawl into bed—”  
  
Sherlock started to turn away.  
  
“—with you, naked, and fall asleep until the sun is high in the sky, get up and get a very large breakfast, and then we’ll tackle all the tough stuff. Can we do that?”  
  
Sherlock turned back around. The relief in his eyes made John want to hold him tight with one arm, never letting him go again, and with the other arm kill anyone who ever made Sherlock feel as though he wasn’t worth getting past a tiny misunderstanding for. Instead, he hid his reaction, afraid it would be interpreted as pity, and made an impatient “drink up!” gesture, to which Sherlock responded by groaning and drinking a few drops more.  
  
“I want to see that entire bottle gone before we go to sleep, mister.”  
  
“Then it’s going to be a few days before we sleep.”  
  
“I know ways of force-feeding you if I have to.”  
  
“Actually, I don’t doubt that.” And Sherlock took some healthy swallows from the bottle, and by the time John finished brushing his teeth, the blue liquid was gone (and Sherlock’s tongue had turned blue—John checked—so there was a reasonable possibility that at least some of the Gatorade was actually inside him).  
  
Once the lights were off and they were facing each other, arms wrapped around backs and legs entangled, John whispered to Sherlock,  
  
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you needed me.”  
  
Sherlock murmured back,  
  
“I’m sorry I overstepped with the dinner.”  
  
John could see Sherlock’s eyes glinting in the faint light coming in from the nighttime city. They were colourless in the dark, but he fancied he could see emotion in them far beyond the words—regret, and desperation, and yearning. He reached up and slipped his fingers through Sherlock’s curls, over and over again until Sherlock’s eyelids fell lower and lower and finally shut. Sherlock gave one inelegant, giant yawn and was suddenly asleep. John smiled fondly and watched him until John, too, fell under Morpheus’ spell.  
  


* * *

  
_Friday, 09:00_  
  
Sherlock was astonished to find the sun high in the sky when he woke. In fact, he was astonished to be _waking up_. It had been weeks since he’d fallen asleep properly. He glared at John’s back where he was puttering—doing something abysmal with the coffee maker and “tea”, it seemed. Obviously, the sleep was John’s doing. Bringer of bad habits! Eating, drinking blue potions, and now _sleeping_. Dreadful. Luckily, John made up for it by being fascinating and by giving and having the most interesting orgasms.  
  
John turned around with a steaming mug in his hand.  
  
“Ah, decided to join the awake people!”  
  
“Piss off!”  
  
“I think that’s the first time I’ve seen you sleep.”  
  
“First and last.”  
  
“Sherlock, everyone has to sleep sometime.”  
  
“I am _not_  everyone.”  
  
“No, my dear, you most certainly are not.”  
  
Sherlock scrubbed his fingers rigorously through his hair, resulting in John choking on tea so badly that it came out his nose.  
  
“What?!” Sherlock asked, indignantly.  
  
“That is some of the most amazing hair I’ve ever seen.”  
  
“I cannot imagine what you are talking about.”  
  
“You are a sight.”  
  
“A _vision_ , you mean.” Sherlock stepped out of the bed with as much dignity as he could muster and stalked to the bathroom, shutting the door firmly and starting the shower. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and had to allow that perhaps John had a bit of leeway to tease when it came down to it.  
  


* * *

  
_09:30_  
  
When they were both cleaned up and dressed and ready to face the world, Sherlock coached John on how to talk to Mycroft.  
  
“He’s a complete git.”  
  
“That is not helpful, Sherlock.”  
  
“Yes it is. You need to know that from the start. He is horrible, fat, absolutely useless, untrustworthy, unreliable, and has had it in for me since the day I was born.”  
  
John gave Sherlock a disbelieving look.  
  
“See? You’re like _all the rest of them._  You’re taking his side _before you’ve even met him_. I’ve _already lost you to him._ ”  
  
John noticed that Sherlock didn’t really seem to be joking.  
  
He took one of Sherlock’s hands in both of his.  
  
“Sherlock. You haven’t lost me to anybody. I have never felt about anyone the way I feel about you. I’m yours, you idiot. No one is going to change my mind about you: not your brother, not the bloody prime minister of England, not the Queen herself.”  
  
“You’re not far off there.”  
  
“I’m _with you_. I lo—like _you_. We are _together_. That’s that. Got it?”  
  
Sherlock sulked.  
  
“Now tell me something helpful.”  
  
Sherlock sighed heavily.  
  
“You will never meet a more dangerous man than Mycroft. He _is_  the British government. He will tell you he is a minor government official. That is, of course, what he needs everyone to believe. Not worth arguing the point with him. He lives for his club, which is a group of stuffy, farty old men whose sole purpose in life is to shush anyone with an original thought and do nothing but read newspapers. There is nothing Mycroft cannot do, and there is nothing he is willing to do for me, ever.”  
  
John was surprised to find himself with a lapful of a despairing Sherlock’s face.  
  
“This is a lost cause,” Sherlock wailed into John’s thighs. “We should just give up. I will stay here, you will go back to London, I will never see you again, my heart will break, I will die, and they will burn me and put my ashes in a dark corner in the Columbarium and the janitor will sweep me up with the trash the next day and throw me in the Bay.”  
  
“I have never in my life heard such melodrama. And my sister has a two-year-old. Give me your brother’s number.”  
  
“No, John, no! Don’t call him! He hates me! He’ll probably have me killed himself to save Mor—to save _him_  the trouble! This is a terrible idea!”  
  
John took the phone out of Sherlock’s hands, thankful it was already unlocked. He navigated to the contacts screen and found “Mycroft Holmes”. Shrugging, he just used Sherlock’s phone to make the call. Then he extricated himself from the suddenly clingy and very unhelpful, moaning, limp form of a lover, leaving him writhing in agony on the bed. He had to go into Sherlock’s room to hear himself think.  
  
“Sherlock?” a voice said sharply.  
  
“Hello, no, my name is John Watson, and I am using Sherlock’s phone—”  
  
“Where is Sherlock? Put him on immediately.”  
  
“Uh…” This was a wrinkle John hadn’t anticipated. “Sherlock! Your brother thinks I’ve kidnapped you or something. Get in here.”  
  
Sherlock dragged himself in, took the phone, and flopped miserably on his bed.  
  
“Mysoft.”  
  
“Sherlock? Are you all right? Are you in trouble?”  
  
“Of course not. You need to talk to John.”  
  
“I have no idea who that is. Talk to me; tell me what’s wrong.”  
  
“Absolutely not. You shall negotiate with John; he is my designated mediator.”  
  
“I shall do no such thing!”  
  
Sherlock handed the phone back to John.  
  
“He’s ready to talk to you now.”  
  
“Sherlock? Sherlock!”  
  
“Sorry, it’s back to me, John.”  
  
The was a large sigh all the way from London.  
  
“John Watson, MD. Recently of Afghanistan, invalided out from a shot to the left shoulder. Working as a locum, on a trip to a conference in San Francisco at the St Regis. How is it that you know my brother?”  
  
John thought about telling Mycroft how amazing that was, but it didn’t seem that he would take to it as well as Sherlock.  
  
“We’ve...become friends, while I’ve been here in the city. We’ve become quite close, actually, and Sherlock wants to come back to London with me to continue our...acquaintance.”  
  
“You’re lovers, and you want to move in together. I cannot advise that.”  
  
John took a moment to breathe. Yes, there was no doubt that these two were related.  
  
“I wasn’t asking for your advice.”  
  
“Clearly you called me to ask for _something_.”  
  
“Respectfully, yes we did. Sherlock has hinted at the circumstances in which he had to...leave...London. In fact, those...circumstances...seem to be why he has not been able to come up with a plan for his safe return, and also why he has asked that I be the one to talk to you, even though we do not know each other. When he started thinking about what transpired, he was thrown into a panic attack.”  
  
“Quite understandable. And under no circumstances can he return.”  
  
“We were really hoping you could find some way around that, you see.”  
  
More sighs.  
  
“I don’t know what Sherlock has told you about me, Dr Watson, but I really am just a minor government official, not some magician. I cannot change what has happened, and I cannot simply make Moriarty go away.”  
  
_Moriarty?_  John thought. _Huh. Was that the name Sherlock was trying to say last night?_  
  
“The only way I was able to...extricate...Sherlock from the situation he was in was to get Moriarty to agree that Sherlock would never set foot in London again. Well, there were several other agreements made, but no need to go into that. If Sherlock returns, there is no way I can protect him. He will be in _mortal danger_ , Dr Watson. You must understand. This is not some lark that two lovers can ‘work around.’  
  
“Let me make it clear. Moriarty has an obsession with Sherlock. He would like nothing better than to have an excuse to recapture him and torture him as slowly as possible, over years, to an inevitably early—but not _nearly early enough_ —death. Do you understand? Sherlock would pray to a God he does not believe in for death every minute, of every day, for _years_. We _cannot allow that to happen_. I am ashamed and appalled at what already happened. I knew within two days what was going on and it took me _months_  to get him away from that evil son-of-a-bitch.”  
  
John’s face was pale. Clearly Sherlock had skimmed over quite a lot when he said, casually, “six months later, I had to leave London.”  
  
“Months, Dr Watson. I lost most of the substantial credit and favors I had worked to build—and I lost them gladly—but every day was an agony, knowing what Sherlock was going through. Moriarty made certain I knew, in every way possible. Video, and...less savoury methods. I will never, _never_  forgive myself for not protecting him from that situation in the first place, though of course he never listens to me. Nonetheless, I should have found a way to prevent it.”  
  
John heard Mycroft’s voice break just slightly. He wondered at Sherlock’s characterization of Mycroft as someone who hated him, who wanted nothing to do with him. It seemed clear that Mycroft loved Sherlock as passionately as one brother could love another.  
  
“Dr Watson, I implore you. You must keep Sherlock out of London.”  
  
“Thank you for speaking with me, Mycroft. I will take it under advisement, and I will be in touch,” John said briskly and hung up.  
  
“What. What. What did he say? Did he turn you against me? Oh my God, he did...he told you that he’s smarter than me, now you want to be with _him_ , oh gods that’s the most disgusting thing I can imagine, Mycroft’s flabby white buttocks moving in—”  
  
“STOP, would you just _stop_  already you histrionic scarecrow!” John grabbed the now-pacing Sherlock and pushed him back down on the bed, clambering on top of him and kissing him quiet. Sherlock eagerly kissed back, and soon the frantic, manic kisses settled into slower, deeper kisses, which led to Sherlock starting to rut slowly against John until John pulled back with a groan.  
  
“No, no you succubus. We have to talk about this, and the ordinary human needs sustenance.” John climbed off as Sherlock protested. “Come, I want to go back to Mel’s.”  
  
John was careful to keep the horror Mycroft’s words had struck within him off his face, hidden in his heart. What had happened to this precious man?  
  


* * *

  
_10:15_  
  
Over a large and varied breakfast, John gave Sherlock a very abbreviated summary of the conversation.  
  
“Mycroft seems to care about you a great deal—”  
  
Loud scoffing commenced.  
  
“—and he says there is absolutely no way you can return to London.”  
  
“What, because he’s too lazy to get off his fat ass and do anything about it? Or just because he doesn’t want to see me, and this is a convenient way to keep me far away?”  
  
John looked at Sherlock oddly as he took a bite of his hot dog. What was with this persistent belief that his brother was an asshole? He would have to dig more into that at some point. If things went the way he was starting to hope, he would have his whole life to do the digging.  
  
“No, because…” John considered how to say this diplomatically.  
  
“Just spit it out, John.”  
  
John thought about how Mycroft described what could happen and decided: no way would he “spit it out.”  
  
“Mycroft made it clear that there was no way that he could protect you from Moriarty.”  
  
“There is no way he _wants_  to protect me from Mor—from _him_.”  
  
“I really don’t think that’s what’s going on here, Sherlock.”  
  
“John. Dear, sweet, naïve John.”  
  
“Oi!”  
  
“Who is more likely to understand what is going on here? Me, who has known Mycroft my whole life, and who has admittedly far more intelligence between the two of us? Or you, who has had a twelve-and-a-half minute conversation with an expert manipulator who has more intelligence than even I?”  
  
“ _Me_ , who has more _social_  intelligence than you could ever hope to have in this lifetime or the next.”  
  
More scoffing.  
  
“Look. I think we have to think about alternatives. Yes, I love London. But my job there is not at all important to me. You, on the other hand, _are_  important to me. I won’t compromise your safety, not even for a possibility. We should talk about other places we could go. As far as I understand it, the whole of England outside of London is a possibility. As is the rest of the world. We should think big, Sherlock.”  
  
“I am not keeping you from London, John. The first week or two would be exciting, honeymoon phase, lots of grand sex, and then you would begin to resent me, to pine for your beloved city, and you would begin to wonder why you gave up all you loved for this stranger in your bed, and I would be left alone, and we are back to my broken heart and ashes in the Bay.”  
  
“I think you are approaching this from a very all-or-nothing standpoint, Sherlock, and I have to tell you, if we are going to live together, you are going to have to learn to become more flexible than that.”  
  
“Trying to change me already, John?”  
  
They continued to bicker as they paid the bill and wandered outside. They were headed back towards the hotel when the hairs on the back of John’s neck stood up. A split-second later he pushed Sherlock down behind a concrete barrier next to the road and fell behind him; a half-second after that, there was a _ping_  and concrete dust rained down on them.  
  
“John?”  
  
“Crawl, Sherlock. Go that way.” John pointed ahead of them, towards some thick concrete-wrapped planters. More barely audible _ping_ s zipped above them. Little chunks of concrete were now falling on them at uneven intervals.  
  
“We’re being shot at,” Sherlock said calmly as he wriggled forward, using his elbows to pull himself along.  
  
“Shit,” John said as he watched a man on the sidewalk next to them collapse, blood spurting from his neck. People started screaming. The _ping_ s continued, some hitting the top of the road barrier, some hitting the sidewalk, coming closer to them. They reached the planters and John crawled on top of Sherlock, shielding his body with his own.  
  
More screams, but John couldn’t look back to see if another civilian was hit. Sirens were getting close now, and the shots stopped. John’s chest was covering Sherlock’s head, his pelvis covering Sherlock’s back; bone structures positioned to protect Sherlock’s brain and heart. He could feel that his own heartbeat was slow and steady, as it always was in a firefight. Time felt molasses-slow. He could taste the concrete dust and the copper of adrenaline. He smelled the stale urine underneath the planters and Sherlock’s sour sweat. His breathing was deep and even; Sherlock was panting a little, far less than he would expect from someone new to this. He could hear police officers pouring out of their sedans, an ambulance arriving, official helpers asking questions, panicked people yelling answers unnecessarily loudly in their fear. It had been three minutes since the last shot. Sherlock was not asking questions nor demanding that John get off of him.  
  
John waited a full ten minutes after the last shot. No one noticed them in the chaos. He rolled off Sherlock, and they both moved to sitting positions, their backs against the sturdy (and lifesaving) planters.  
  
Sherlock watched John for a while.  
  
“You knew before the first shot hit.”  
  
John nodded.  
  
“You get a sense for these things,” John said tiredly.  
  
“You saw something out of the corner of your eye—a shadow, a glint of light where there shouldn’t have been one, a movement of air that was wrong.”  
  
John shrugged.  
  
“You saved our lives.”  
  
John looked at Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock took John’s hand in his, almost absent-mindedly.  
  
“Moriarty?” asked John.  
  
Sherlock nodded.  
  
“That quickly?”  
  
Another nod.  
  
“From the phone call?”  
  
Sherlock sighed.  
  
“Your phone or Mycroft’s?”  
  
“Either, I suppose. I didn’t think it was possible to bug Mycroft’s phone, but Mor—” He cleared his throat. “Mor _iarty_  has depthless resources. Or he’s been tapping mine since I got here and hasn’t seen fit to do anything with it until I spoke of going back.”  
  
John shifted to sit closer to Sherlock, so that he was pressed against him, on the sidewalk. Eventually an EMT noticed them.  
  
“You folks need any help?”  
  
“No ma’am, we’re fine, thanks,” John answered. She was busy enough that she nodded and moved on. No police officers bothered to ask them any questions. John was glad. He wouldn’t have had the first idea what to say.  
  
As soon as they started walking back towards the hotel, Sherlock’s mobile phone rang. He answered but didn’t say anything.  
  
After a while, he handed it to John.  
  
“Dr Watson. I’m terribly sorry; we had no idea he had access to that phone. We’re locking that down now; this call should be safe. It’s scrambled in two different ways. We’re working on finding the shooter. You are being tailed now by several agents, and there will be people stationed outside your room and outside your hotel. Some you will see, some you won’t. These people are sworn to do whatever it takes to protect the both of you.”  
  
“Mycroft—I, I don’t know what to say.”  
  
“As my brother’s significant other, you are now under the same protection as him. As I said, it is imperative that he not come back to London. I have taken the liberty of cancelling your return plane tickets. You may stay indefinitely at the St Regis until you decide where you want to go; your stay and all amenities are paid for. My brother’s stay and amenities are paid as well; it goes without saying that he is no longer ‘employed’ by the hotel.”  
  
“Uh—”  
  
“When you decide on your destination, there will be a private plane with full security ready to take you, whenever you are ready to go. I can have a home available for you within four hours’ notice, from a beach chalet to a ski lodge, a full ranch to a four-storey mansion, wherever you two decide upon. If you would like to continue medical work, let me know and I will arrange a job in whatever specialty you prefer. Of course, you do not need to continue to work for a wage.”  
  
“Mycroft—”  
  
“Please get inside as soon as possible, Dr Watson. It’s been lovely speaking with you. I do look forward to meeting you one day soon. I never dared hope for a brother-in-law.”  
  
John blinked, and was about to say something—anything—when he realized that the call was disconnected. He gaped at Sherlock.  
  
“Do you see what I mean?” Sherlock said, spreading his arms comically wide.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Darling readers! We are now caught up with what was prepared. Now we venture, together, into the unknown. Two chapters left. What will happen to our intrepid boys? I have some idea, but they do tend to have minds of their own. I have high hopes of finishing up this week; we'll see if real life lets me.
> 
> Thanks for coming along on this journey; I hope you're enjoying the ride.


	14. Friday (cont.): St Regis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This past week saw the legalization of same-sex marriage in the U.S. I was able to celebrate it at San Francisco's Pride celebration. Regardless of where you stand on marriage, this is a stepping stone to more acceptance and more rights for all of us.
> 
> One more chapter to go, dear readers, and it is _not_ an epilogue. It is also not written yet, and I'm job hunting, so have patience and have faith...it's a'comin', I promise.

  
_Friday, 11:00_  
  
John and Sherlock were walking purposefully to the front door of the St Regis.  
  
The week-long, union-plus-opportunists protest was in full swing.  
  
As they reached the outskirts, several people crowded up against them, waving picket signs and flyers in their faces.  
  
“Fuck right off,” John said pleasantly, strong-arming a man twice his size out of the way.  
  
“Get the _fuck_  away from my boyfriend!” shouted Sherlock, committing some violence with sharp elbows that cleared a pocket of room.  
  
Wiggins and Angela were hurrying towards them when the crowd seemed to melt away, leaving just a man and a woman, both wearing a black suit and dark sunglasses. There was a prominent gun bulge under each their jackets and communications equipment in their ears.  
  
Their appearance screamed “special ops.”  
  
“Sorry for the delay, Mr Holmes, Dr Watson,” said the woman in a polite, upper-class British accent. The two agents ushered the four of them into the lobby.  
  
“Is that what my brother paid for?” Sherlock sneered as soon as they were inside. Wiggins and Angela were gaping at the newcomers.  
  
“Excuse me, who are you, and why do you think you can—” sputtered Angela.  
  
“It’s all been cleared with management, Ms Rushman. I suggest you speak with the desk sergeant.”  
  
“Well, we’ll just do that!” Wiggins said angrily, and he and Angela stomped off to the check-in desk, leaving John to sigh and Sherlock to pull at his hair.  
  
“If this is the best you can do—”  
  
“Our sincerest apologies. We’ve been setting up ever since we first learned of the breach, which was approximately 20 minutes ago. There have been some...obstacles. We promise there will be no more incidents.”  
  
“Don’t think my brother won’t hear about this.”  
  
The male agent sighed almost undetectably. “I assure you, sir, your brother is already well aware and has made his opinion on our performance clear. We are to escort you to your room, if you please.”  
  
Sherlock exchanged a look with John that read, more or less, _we might as well go along for now and figure things out when we can talk in private._  They both nodded slightly at each other and headed towards the elevator, an agent on each side. Wiggins and Angela were in a heated discussion at the check-in desk but watched them carefully as they moved through the lobby. Sherlock caught their glances and gave them some sort of signal—John couldn’t quite see what it was—but it seemed to ease their fears, and they turned back to arguing with their supervisor.  
  
Finally, Sherlock was able to shut the door to the room with the two agents posted on either side in the hallway. He and John looked at each other for a moment. Then they fell upon each other, kissing so messily and urgently that Sherlock cut John’s lip and John’s teeth scraped a raw spot on Sherlock’s chin. They stumbled in a tight clench until John was pressed up against the door, with Sherlock molded to him, his nose in John’s neck as he began shuddering; John assumed it was from adrenaline.  
  
“Shh, shh…” John soothed, running his hands over Sherlock’s back.  
  
“How many did you spot?” Sherlock murmured into John’s neck.  
  
“Five, maybe six? I wasn’t sure about the young woman with the backpack in the lobby.”  
  
“Good eye, John. I think you missed the one across the way, though.”  
  
“Where, you mean across from here?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
John peered around Sherlock’s shoulder and sure enough, he spotted a glint of light in a window up and across from their room.  
  
“That’s sloppy. I shouldn’t be able to see that.”  
  
“I’m really not pleased with this response. However, I’m equally sure that Mycroft is not pleased either and that heads are rolling. In fact, if we opened the door, we would see two completely different agents outside.”  
  
“It’s been three minutes.”  
  
“It would have happened within thirty seconds of us closing the door.”  
  
“Sherlock, this has all been rather...sudden. We can cut them a little slack, can’t we?”  
  
Sherlock pulled back to study John seriously.  
  
“Mycroft _is_  the British government. His resources are _unlimited_. That is not an exaggeration. Yes, I’m just his little brother, but this is an excellent safety drill for them. If they cannot assemble reasonable security on a moment’s notice _in America_  in a _major city_ , then all British officials and friends of the British government are in absolute danger.”  
  
John considered that for a moment.  
  
“I think while we talk about this, I’d prefer not to be observed by black ops, or whatever it’s called these days,” he said, and he moved to close the slat curtains over the windows.  
  
Sherlock watched him intently. John returned his stare when the windows were covered.  
  
“I won’t be separated from you,” John said flatly.  
  
“It won’t happen.”  
  
“I won’t let your brother do it. I don’t know what he’s planning, but I will not allow that. You are under my protection now.”  
  
“And you are under mine.”  
  
“Okay. As long as that’s settled.”  
  
“It is quite settled, John.” Sherlock crossed the room and crowded up against John. “Quite settled.”  
  
Sherlock kissed John, but this time it was much, much slower than when they first entered the room. It almost wasn’t a kiss; he touched his lips as lightly as a whisper to John’s, again, and again, the faintest of brushes, and John agreed with his own mouth, licking just to wet his lips but then skimming against Sherlock’s, just hinting at the idea of kissing.  
  
They started tasting each other, not dipping inside. Their bodies pressed close. Sherlock held John tenderly, feeling the warmth of the person in his arms.  
  
“Your brother called me your significant other,” John murmured against Sherlock’s mouth.  
  
“Does that bother you?”  
  
“It bothers me that your brother said it before we discussed it.” John deepened the kiss for a moment before switching back to tiny sucks.  
  
Sherlock smoothed a large hand over John’s hair; John hummed in pleasure.  
  
“Do you want to discuss it now?”  
  
“Okay,” John said, dipping down to nibble under Sherlock’s ear.  
  
When John didn’t say anything else, Sherlock asked: “Are we significant others?”  
  
“Kinda seems like we are, doesn’t it?”  
  
“What does ‘significant other’ mean?”  
  
“For me, it means that I’m pretty much planning to spend the rest of my life with you.”  
  
Sherlock pulled back at that and looked at John, startled. There was no artifice in John’s expression; no challenge, no attempt at provocation. He looked as calm as if he was telling Sherlock what he planned to have for dinner.  
  
“...If that’s okay with you?”  
  
Sherlock gathered John into a hug that was rather too tight, making John go “Oof!” and eventually flap at Sherlock’s back.  
  
“I have to breathe, Sherlock!”  
  
“John, John, John…”  
  
Sherlock loosened his hold and instead nuzzled again into John’s neck. He couldn’t seem to say anything else.  
  
“John. Oh John...John, John…”  
  
John didn’t laugh at him. John stroked his hair and hugged him back.  
  


* * *

  
_11:15_  
  
John found himself naked in bed, engulfed in Sherlock. They were rubbing against each other frantically, pawing and pulling and grabbing and then rolling and moaning until there was a yelp when Sherlock’s hair got caught—“Sorry, sorry!”—and as they shifted to fix that, one of John’s bollocks was a little pinched—“Aaaah!” “Oh gods, are you hurt?” “Yeah, a bit…” “Here, let me kiss it better”—and then Sherlock’s head was between John’s legs, arms wrapped around his thighs, licking the skin of each of John’s testicles so gently and carefully that John let his knees fall open and whined at how quickly his cock lifted to full hardness.  
  
“Oh Sherlock, Sherlock...I need you…”  
  
“Yes, John, yes.”  
  
“I need you _inside_  me.”  
  
Sherlock glanced up from where he was making John’s balls very, very wet.  
  
“Please, Sherlock. Fuck me. Make love to me. Just _get inside me._ ”  
  
Sherlock clambered up over John and fell half on him, trying to reach for the drawer with the lube.  
  
“ _In_  me, not _on_  me, you unexpectedly heavy bag of gorgeous bones.”  
  
“I can’t—reach—the drawer—”  
  
“So get up already! _Whoa_ ,” John said as an elbow landed in his tummy.  
  
“Got it,” Sherlock crowed as his somewhat deflated penis dragged over John’s chest. John took the opportunity to spank Sherlock’s conveniently positioned arse.  
  
“Hey!”  
  
“Oh, I like that bounce.” He spanked it a few more times, admiring the way the ivory flesh wobbled. The movement appealed to something very primitive in his brain, something he couldn’t really access intellectually, and he thought he should explore that more while he whacked a pinking buttock again.  
  
Sherlock twisted around to see what John was up to.  
  
“I thought we were going to fuck.”  
  
“We were, but you took too long.”  
  
“So now you’re going to spank me instead?”  
  
“So it appears!” John said cheerfully, popping his palm against the other arsecheek.  
  
“ _John_.” Sherlock had twisted around and was suddenly fully on top of John, his mouth centimetres from John’s mouth, his voice low and soft. “You are telling me that after the morning we just had, given that we are being guarded by who knows how many of Mycroft’s henchpeople from who knows how many of Mor—that _fucktard’s_  snipers, and Mycroft is ready to swoop down upon us and whisk us away to some safe house whence we will never again emerge, that what you want to do is play pat-a-cake with my posterior fat deposits, when you _could_  be lying back and—”  
  
Sherlock snuck a slippery finger under John and pushed the tip right up against his pucker.  
  
“—having my thick, hot, throbbing cock—”  
  
He pushed the finger slowly in, breaching and then just holding, letting his other fingers tickle lightly around the perimeter.  
  
“—press deep into you, over and over, letting you feel how we are joined together in a way that no one can ever understand or tear apart?”  
  
John’s eyes had gone wide and dark, staring up into Sherlock’s, which were deep blue in the shadows of the curtained room. He arched his back and moaned as Sherlock pressed in a little deeper, slowly letting the stretch of just one finger take hold where nothing had penetrated in quite some time. He felt Sherlock’s thumb teasing over his ball seam and he closed his eyes tightly and whined, then opened them as Sherlock took his mouth in a thick kiss, thrusting his tongue slowly in and out of John’s mouth.  
  
“Please, John,” Sherlock said, pulling back from the kiss and stilling his hand. “Please let me inside you. And after we come like that, I want you to take me. Let’s seal our love together.”  
  
John’s mouth dropped open. He blinked a few times.  
  
“I love you too, Sherlock.”  
  
Sherlock gasped in a breath and closed his own eyes for a few moments, his expression one of exquisite pain. When he reopened them, he was looking at John as though he was some new and undiscovered creature.  
  
“Mr. Holmes?” came a voice from the corridor.  
  
“Fuck off!”  
  
“Your brother wants to know if everything is okay!”  
  
“Tell him to fuck off!”  
  
“He says you pulled the drapes!”  
  
“I did, and that’s the way they’re going to stay!”  
  
“He says, for security reasons—”  
  
Sherlock carefully pulled his finger from John and wiped it on the sheet. “My sincere apologies, darling. Won’t be a minute,” he said, and gave John a tender kiss. Then he stalked over to the door and opened it, absolutely naked, with a proud and jutting hard-on. John pulled up the sheet and tried not to laugh out loud as he watched the agent (who, indeed, was a different one) try not to react.  
  
“Don’t worry about my brother. I will contact him myself in a moment. Thank you for your inquiries into our well-being; we are, as you can see, both fine.” Sherlock slammed the door, found his trousers, and dragged out his phone. A few angry stabs and he was connected.  
  
“Mycroft,” he said in a very dark tone. John thought he would be hard-pressed not to flinch if that tone was used on him.  
  
“John and I are having survival sex and will be for the rest of the day and night. Keep your goddamn minions away from the door. I don’t give a fuck what they hear, but John has delicate sensibilities. The curtains will remain closed. No one will be getting in or out; your idiots will see to that. There is no need for them to see or hear what is going on inside this room.”  
  
John decided that he really, really liked when Sherlock was forceful.  
  
“Yes, I have the fucking panic button on the phone. Yes, I will use it if there is an emergency. Mycroft, I am no longer four years old.”  
  
John watched Sherlock literally stomp a foot and had to turn his head to smother a smile.  
  
“I _knew_  you would do this. I _knew_ it. Yes, I fucked up in London. And yes, you will never, _never_  let me live it down. But for fuck’s sake, Mycroft, I _am_  a grown man and I _have_  been living on my own in—no, no you have _not_  had anything to do with—I will not listen to this! You did not—I worked that out by myself! You had no hand in—Mycroft, you insufferable bastard, you know you do not give two fucks about me, stop pretending you do, I won’t listen to any more of this!”  
  
Sherlock threw the phone across the room, where it hit the wall but did not break. John could see that tears were streaming down Sherlock’s face. He hopped out of the bed and picked up the phone. When he heard Mycroft’s frantic voice, he held it to his ear.  
  
“It’s me, Mycroft.”  
  
“John? _Ahem_ , Dr Watson, is he okay?”  
  
“Yes, what did you say to him?”  
  
Mycroft sighed. “I suppose that’s something you should ask him. He...well. It’s a long-standing problem, and it’s really not mine to tell. Just…”  
  
John could hear Mycroft swallow over the phone.  
  
“Could you please watch out for him? He’s so smart, but sometimes, he’s a bit...clueless. I worry constantly. He won’t hear of it, but I love him more than anything in this world. I would be very grateful if you could continue to try to keep him safe. Could you do that for me?”  
  
John took a moment to swallow, himself.  
  
“I intend to spend my life doing just that, sir.”  
  
“Don’t call him ‘sir!’” was shouted from across the room.  
  
“Thank you, Dr Watson. I really am looking forward to meeting you.” And the call was ended.  
  
John pulled Sherlock over to the sofa. He arranged Sherlock half over the cushions, half on his lap, Sherlock’s head against his chest. “What happened, darling? What did the bad man say to you?”  
  
“I don’t want to talk about it.”  
  
“Okay.” John busied himself with pulling his fingers through Sherlock’s curls. Sherlock really seemed to enjoy having his hair played with.  
  
Sherlock looked away from John but pushed his head into John’s hands. “He said...he implied that everything that’s gone on since I’ve been here has been...overseen...orchestrated, by him.”  
  
“That’s unlikely.”  
  
“Not really. I don’t seem to be adequately conveying his authority to you. If he wanted to, he could have directed everything I ever saw and everyone I encountered since I stepped off the plane. The problem is, _he would not have wanted to_. That sort of thing is beneath him. And for him to be claiming it now...after all I’ve been through, after some of the things I suffered...after the work I did to get clean, to become a Companion...to learn the path of compassion and mindfulness…”  
  
John felt, rather than heard, Sherlock choke back a sob. He pulled his hand from Sherlock’s hair and wrapped his arms around Sherlock again, holding as tightly as he could. Sherlock grabbed onto John’s forearms.  
  
“It’s cruel,” Sherlock whispered. “It’s cruel. I earned this. I worked so hard to become this. I earned it. Molly showed me the way, and I fucking earned it. He had nothing to do with it. Nothing.”  
  
Sherlock buried himself against John. He pulled his legs in tight and somehow curled himself up small enough to be held; John could almost imagine Sherlock seeking comfort in a warm lap as a child.  
  
_This doesn’t make any sense,_  John thought. _Is Mycroft having me on, when he sounds so concerned, when he says he loves his brother? Or has Sherlock got it all wrong somehow? I’ve got to unravel this...it’s hurting Sherlock, and that can’t continue. I don’t want anything to hurt him, not any more, not now that I’m around to stop it. He talks a big game, but his heart is so easily hurt; it’s like it’s one big bruise...I’m going to be the hard case around it; no one’s getting in again. Oh, Sherlock, sweetheart...you’re safe with me, darling. You’re safe with me._  
  
John rocked Sherlock a little on the sofa as they clung together. The sunlight snuck fingers in-between the slats over the windows when the fog left gaps, making the light in the room as uncertain as their future.  
  


* * *

  
_12:00_  
  
John and Sherlock were lying in bed, head-to-toe. John was busy lightly gnawing on one of Sherlock’s ankles, and Sherlock was half-heartedly telling him to stop.  
  
“What I don’t understand—”  
  
_gnaw_    
  
“—is this whole ‘swooping in and taking over’ thing. I mean, it’s great that he’s trying to keep the bad guys away—”  
  
_gnaw_    
  
“—but why does that have to translate to dictating our entire lives?”  
  
“Exactly. The thing is— _John,_   _stop_ —this is what Mycroft always does. _John, why are you doing that? Stop eating my ankle!_  He doesn’t just help, he has to— _stop it_ —as you say, swoop in and take over everything. _John, I swear to God, if you don’t stop eating my ankle_ —”  
  
John switched to nibbling thoughtfully on Sherlock’s little toe. Nothing ouchy, just little tiny bites.  
  
“This is what I’m saying. Why can’t we find our own place to live—”  
  
_nibble_  
  
“—and our own jobs; fly there on a regular plane?”  
  
“What is your obsession with eating, you strange little man? If you nibble me all up then we won’t have to worry about getting a house, safe or otherwise. There will be nothing left for Mor—for _him_  to covet.”  
  
John shifted to licking the webbing between Sherlock’s toes, which made Sherlock twitch and snicker. John held Sherlock’s ankle steady so there wouldn’t be any accidental kicking.  
  
“I’ve heard,” John said with some mumbling, his mouth being full of toes, “that this is an erogenous zone. It is, isn’t it? You liked it in the shower, right?”  
  
“That’s neither— _ack_ —here nor there…”  
  
John started alternating between licking the webbing and sucking on whatever toe he was near. He grinned when he saw Sherlock’s cock starting to fill out. “Now what were we supposed to be talking about? Our exit strategy?”  
  
“I think I’d rather talk about our _entrance_  strategy…”  
  
“Hmm, I’ve noticed a problem with talking about it.”  
  
“Have you.” Sherlock moved his foot out of John’s tongue’s reach and repurposed it to use his big toe to stroke up and down the silky skin of John’s shaft.  
  
“Yes, I have. Every time we start to talk about doing _it_ , something happens, and we don’t get to _do_  it.”  
  
“Want me to just shove it in there instead?”  
  
They grinned at each other.  
  
“Actually, shit. I do have something we have to talk about, and I think I know what you’re going to say, but I have to ask.”  
  
“No, John, I have no problem either giving or receiving.”  
  
“That is not what I was going to ask, and I think you know that.” John set to tickling Sherlock’s waist, which Sherlock was not expecting, which led to a lot of yelping and scolding, completely ruining the bedclothes. At one point, John was pursuing Sherlock so vigorously, and Sherlock was so assiduously retreating from invading tickly fingers, that they both ended up panting on the floor.  
  
“What was your question, you utterly horrible little man?”  
  
John kissed Sherlock on the cheek and privately noted that Sherlock seemed genuinely distressed by the tickling; he wouldn’t try that again. He lay on his back on the carpet, catching his breath.  
  
“Sorry if that was too much, love.”  
  
He glanced up to see Sherlock gazing at him, his eyes now glittering green in the twilight of the room. Evidently the endearment had wiped the unpleasantness of the tickle-fight away, because he was looking upon John in amazement. John smiled up at him, and Sherlock flopped down beside him.  
  
“You could never be too much for me,” he said nonsensically. “Ugh, this carpet is scratchy as hell.”  
  
“I haven’t had sex or inappropriate needle sticks in fourteen months,” John said. “Well, I hadn’t, anyway, before I had sex with you. I’ve been tested at least three times in that fourteen month period.”  
  
Sherlock watched him, listening.  
  
“You get tested every week, and I’ve seen the care you use with sexual practices. _Dental dams_. No one uses dental dams. And I believe you that you haven’t shot up in a year of weekly tests.”  
  
“Mm-hm?”  
  
“I want to forego condoms.”  
  
“Three months, John. We can only be certain of the tests three months ago.”  
  
“That’s only for HIV. And I trust that you have followed your insanely careful safer sex practices the entire time you’ve been a Companion. Were there any mistakes?”  
  
“None. Though not for lack of bribery attempts on the clients’ parts.”  
  
“Oh god...you don’t think that’s what _I’m_  doing, do you?”  
  
Sherlock huffed impatiently.  
  
“John, we’ve been through this. I am no longer working as a Companion; you are no longer a client. We cancelled that relationship several days back. Thank you for being sensitive, but that is not an issue. Besides, you can’t afford to try to bribe me.” Sherlock smiled broadly. It was John’s turn to huff.  
  
“So, what do you think?” John asked again, once he was done huffing.  
  
“I think you are the most unconventional, risk-taking medical professional I’ve ever met.”  
  
“That’s fair. But what about you? Is it too much risk for you? If so, just let me know; I can wait until we’re tested.”  
  
Sherlock looked at him, considering.  
  
“But honestly,” John continued, feeling his way. “We’ve people shooting at us. Right now we’re prisoners in our own room...this room that has been a haven of freedom and sexual exploration and healing and discovery. Now it’s a trap. And while I plan to live a very long and very healthy life with you, I don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow. I confess that right now, my blood is singing: and my gut, or my heart, or my cock, or _something,_  is insisting that I need to feel you inside me, around me, skin to skin, nothing in the way; just you, and me, and the essence of our passion for each other. I want to share fluids with you, Sherlock. I want to get messy and not worry about it. I want to join our fates with cum and spit and blood.”  
  
Sherlock grabbed John and kissed him, hard.  
  
“Then you shall have me, John. The only disease I could possibly have contracted is HPV, and I was vaccinated a year ago and have been clean on all my tests; I am confident neither of us will infect the other with a single STD. Now come with me to the shower. I want us squeaky clean, because I am going to open you up with my tongue.”  
  


* * *

  
_12:30_  
  
The shower had been slow and sensual. They had washed each other simultaneously, rubbing slippery hands over skin, shivering at the feeling of stroking and being stroked. They had slithered together in a sinuous, soapy dance of ecstatic touching, letting their bodies make contact in unexpected, undirected ways. After they were squeaky clean in every crack and crevice, Sherlock whispered into John’s ear:  
  
“Let’s give the agents a show.”  
  
John giggled, and then both began making really egregious porn groans.  
  
“OH OH SHERLOCK YES FUCK RIGHT THERE, SHOVE IT IN ME SHERLOCK”  
  
“GAWD YES JOHN, YOU’RE SO FUCKING TIGHT, BEND OVER, JUST LIKE THAT”  
  
“Sherlock, I’m gonna CUM, QUICK Sherlock, FUCK ME HARDER…”  
  
“I’m FUCKING you as HARD as I CAN John, BRACE yourself you SLUTTY little WHORE…”  
  
...And so on, as loudly and raunchily as they could think of, while shampooing each other’s hair and rinsing out. The whole effect was rather ruined, if indeed it had any effect at all out in the hallway, by them collapsing in giggles as Sherlock turned off the taps. They tried to dry each other off at the same time, which was a horrible disaster.  
  
“Let’s just ‘air dry’ like that guy in that sports agent movie,” John suggested. Sherlock gave him a puzzled look.  
  
“Like this!” John began to prance around the room, waving his arms over his head. He leapt and hopped and uttered random “Whoo!” and “Yippee!” sounds and generally looked like a deranged leprechaun. Sherlock came into the room and sat on the duvet, ignoring the fact that he was creating a perfect wet print of his arsecheeks on the bed, and watched John with a concerned frown.  
  
John stopped and looked at him.  
  
“No, Sherlock,” he said patiently. “That is _not_  air drying.” He grabbed Sherlock’s hands and dragged him off the bed and tried to dance him around.  
  
“Whee! Yay! We’re drying off!” he sang.  
  
Finally, Sherlock cracked and let out a snort.  
  
“There we go!” John pulled Sherlock into his damp arms and began a demented waltz around the room.  
  
“This is not getting us dry, John!”  
  
“Who cares! I’m waltzing with my ‘significant other!’ Mycroft would be so proud! We’ll be ready for our wedding!”  
  
Sherlock scoffed, changed their positions so that he was leading, began humming a waltz, and started twirling John around the room. John stared up at Sherlock, astonished. He found himself moving effortlessly, guided by Sherlock’s hands, his feet shifting in time to Sherlock’s quiet tune. He felt almost as though he was floating.  
  
“Holy shit, you dance divinely,” he said, knowing it was a cliché and not caring at all.  
  
“A requirement for a Holmes child,” Sherlock said softly, watching John, and resumed the wordless melody.  
  
John realized that Sherlock was not taking his eyes from his own, yet they didn’t touch a piece of furniture. Sherlock even reached behind and opened the door to his room, to give them more space to dance, without breaking stride. John felt himself swept around as in a dream, held securely in the clasp of Sherlock’s arms and his warm gaze. Finally, he could take it no more and laid his head against Sherlock’s bare chest. Sherlock pulled him closer, and their naked bodies pressed together as they continued to dance, Sherlock navigating the connected rooms effortlessly.  
  
He brought them back to the foot of John’s bed as his hummed song came to an end; he tilted John’s head back and leaned down to press a gentle kiss to John’s lips.  
  
They stared at each other for long moments, the intensity of their connection almost unbearable.  
  
Then Sherlock leaned close to John’s ear and whispered:  
  
“Now let me put my tongue in your arsehole.”  
  
John laughed, and Sherlock smiled, and things felt normal again.  
  


* * *

  
_13:00_  
  
John was nicely laid out on the bed, stretched out on his stomach: a pillow under his hips to make his arse that much more accessible; his head comfortably pillowed as well; his arms at his sides. The room temperature was ideal for nudity, and lube and a bottle of water were lying next to his thigh, ready for Sherlock’s use.  
  
“Well? Go ahead,” John said, a bit tremulously.  
  
“Okay, I’ll just get on with it, shall I? Any papers you need me to sign, while I’m down here?” Sherlock replied, sarcastically.  
  
“I’m just saying, I’m not getting any younger.” The bravado was so false that Sherlock winced.  
  
“John. Relax. This is meant to be fun.”  
  
There was a big sigh. “I know.”  
  
“Give it a try, at least.”  
  
“I know, I know! I’ve always wanted to try this! Just...the anticipation’s giving me cold feet…”  
  
Sherlock delicately pulled apart the lightly fuzzed buttocks in front of him and leaned down; he let his long, warm tongue start at the base of John’s testicles and started to lick up—  
  
And John wriggled so hard that Sherlock lost his grip.  
  
“John!” he chided softly. “John, you’re going to have to try to hold still, at least a little.”  
  
“I know,” came a muffled voice from the pillow. “I’ll try.”  
  
Sherlock stroked his hands over the deliciously round arsecheeks, drew them apart again, let his tongue settle in the crease just below John’s anus, and—  
  
“Gah!”  
  
John giggled, clenched, and wrenched away, nearly whacking Sherlock’s nose in the process. Sherlock smothered a sharp response, took a breath, and instead kissed John’s hip.  
  
“Darling, what’s going on?”  
  
“I don’t know,” John wailed in the midst of unhappy giggles. “It’s ticklish, and it’s embarrassing, and I really want it, but I don’t know how people do it. I mean, for god’s sake, Sherlock, it’s where _poo_  happens. Why on earth would you want to tongue me _there_  anyway?”  
  
Sherlock allowed himself to bump his forehead in dismay on John’s hip, just once. Then he sat up and thought for a moment.  
  
“You do want to try it, right? You know that you’re quite clean; we were very careful about that in the shower, and you know that I am very, _very_  willing to do it, right?”  
  
John twisted around to peer at Sherlock.  
  
“Just ‘willing?’”  
  
“John. I’ve never rimmed before without a barrier. I can only imagine what it’s like...and I imagine it’s heavenly. Have you ever performed barrier-free cunnilingus?  
  
“Yes…”  
  
“Did you like it?”  
  
“Got off on it, once. No hands, nothing but grinding into the bed while I was doing it.”  
  
“I think it’s going to be similar for me. You’re right, I’m not just willing, John. I’m _eager_. I’m a little _desperate_  to get my mouth on you: to lick you, to taste you. You’ll be musky, not at all like excretion but like the thick musk of testicular sweat—which, before you object, I find incredibly arousing. My face will be surrounded by your flesh; I’ll be able to pierce your most private place, rich with nerve endings, with my _tongue_ , John. I cannot imagine anything more erotic.”  
  
John moaned a little.  
  
“I have the feeling that your reactions are involuntary, at least now, before you’ve experienced this a first time. I would like to try something.” Sherlock was pleased to see John’s pupils instantly expand from their already wide state when he said “I would like to try something”; clearly he had John’s trust, even after the feeding mishap.  
  
“What?” John asked hoarsely.  
  
“I’m not proposing a scene. But I think some very light bondage, just to help you stay still, might be in order. Let me wrap some soft rope around your upper thighs. If you prefer, I don’t even have to attach them to the bed. If I do attach them to the bed, you can easily undo them with your hands, which will be perfectly free. I can even give you scissors. What do you think?”  
  
John was panting, hard. Sherlock watched him for a full minute and a half.  
  
“John?”  
  
“Oh god,” John croaked. “Oh god please Sherlock. Yes please yes now yes do that please.”  
  
Sherlock grinned and went to retrieve the toy bag from where it had ended up in the corner. After some rummaging, he came back with two lengths of purple rope and a left-handed pair of safety scissors. He gave the scissors to John; then he circled the rope around the top of one of John’s thighs. As he did so, his hand brushed underneath, against John’s very stiff erection, and he smiled to himself.  
  
“I’m using a simple reef knot here, John, and I’ll use the same under the bed. But you’re welcome to just cut the rope if you want out; it’s inexpensive and we can always buy more.” He finished tying the first knot and slipped two fingers under the rope to make sure it wasn’t too tight.  
  
“Oh fuck,” groaned John as he felt the restriction around his joint.  
  
_He really is quite susceptible to the psychological effects of bondage,_  noted Sherlock. _We’ll have to play with this a lot more in the future._  
  
Sherlock fastened that rope and the second one to the bed frame. John tested the bondage by trying to do a pushup on the bed. He couldn’t get his knees underneath himself. This resulted in a lot of groaning and writhing and grinding against the pillow under his hips.  
  
“None of that,” Sherlock teased. “The point of this exercise was to keep you _still_.”  
  
“Oh god, Sherlock, I don’t think I’m going to last…”  
  
“Are you seriously concerned about that?”  
  
John nodded vigorously.  
  
“I can help with that.”  
  
John twisted around again to stare at him. Sherlock was stunned by how wrecked John looked now. A red flush had crept up his chest and neck and painted his cheeks; his lips looked swollen from where he had been biting them. His eyes were wide and dark; his expression was dazed.  
  
“How?” John said in a gravelly voice.  
  
Sherlock reached down into his bag and pulled out a strap of leather embedded with a metal snap.  
  
“I can put this on you.”  
  
“Where?”  
  
Sherlock chuckled.  
  
“Let me show you. I promise it won’t hurt.”  
  
“Okay,” John agreed vaguely.  
  
Sherlock reached below John’s pelvis, and John cried out as warm hands moved around his aching penis. Sherlock efficiently wrapped and snapped the leather cock ring; he chuckled as he felt a spurt of hot wetness soak the pillow, a last bit of pre-ejaculate before John’s cock was locked down.  
  
“No need to worry now. That will ensure that you don’t come until we decide you should.”  
  
John made some inarticulate sounds and rutted faintly against the pillow, unable to gain much traction now that he was bound to the bed.  
  
Sherlock knelt in position again, between John’s legs, and took his time lying down comfortably and slowly pulling John’s cheeks apart. Now there was no urgency, though John started pleading and begging. As before, Sherlock let the tip of his tongue touch against the base of John’s balls and slowly drew a wet, thin path up the perineum to just below the anus. He circled all around that, ignoring the whining coming from above, and continued up to the top of the crease.  
  
When he went to start at the base again, he was amused to find John’s hands replacing his, pulling himself as wide open as he could.  
  
“Please, Sherlock, now, I need you, look how still I am, I’m holding still, I want you, I want to feel you, uh, _licking me_ , god, I’m so dirty, I’m filthy, please please please let me feel it—” and then it really devolved into a lot of not-very-understandable mutterings. Sherlock decided there had been plenty of build-up and laid the flat of his tongue directly against John’s pink furl.  
  
This led to some shouting.  
  
He pulsed his tongue against the entrance for a while, letting John get used to the feeling of something touching the outside. Then he used the tip to start probing the smooth folds. He took advantage of the unexpected use of his hands to tickle and tease at John’s balls, allowing his fingers to slip, every now and then, up to caress John’s shaft, which led to aborted arse movements.  
  
Sherlock was amazed by the experience. Yes, John had been very slightly musky at first, but mostly he had tasted faintly of soap, and now he tasted like nothing. But the skin at his entrance was so very, very silky and smooth; it was an intensely interesting sensory event when combined with the irrational taboo of licking the arse.  
  
But beyond that, Sherlock was overwhelmed with the experience of giving so much obvious pleasure to someone that he cared about—okay, that he loved. Hearing and feeling John come apart was making it very difficult to mentally record what was happening for later analysis and storage. Though most of his body was lying untouched on the bed, the feeling of John all around his face was so affecting, and the sounds—mewling and whimpering and begging—were so satisfying that he felt utterly surrounded by John; he could think of nothing other than continuing to give him pleasure and keep him on the edge of orgasm for as long as he possibly could. Nothing else mattered, in a way he wasn’t even able to achieve during meditation—and of course, he would not realize that for a few days, because he simply _could not think_.  
  
Sherlock paused, whenever his mouth began to get dry, to take sips of water. He wanted this to be an extremely wet, slippery experience for John. At one point, he filled his mouth with water and then drizzled it slowly into John’s arse crack, leading to a lot of groaning and cursing.  
  
“Oh GOD fuck Sherlock oh fuck that feels so weird and so good you’re getting the goddamn bed wet, oh oh oh lick me, don’t stop licking me, oh it’s so wet, oh god lick my balls, they’re wet and cold…”  
  
Sherlock, whose tongue was still a bit chilled from the water, managed to wriggle a good half-inch into John’s hot hole. He licked inside the tight muscle, mesmerized by the feeling.  
  
“What are you doing to me Sherlock, Sherlock—SHERLOCK oh GOD—”  
  
He reached up to squeeze John’s arsecheeks, needing to feel the soft flesh, and John released his hold on his own buttocks with a sigh. Sherlock vaguely thought that John’s shoulder must have been bothering him, and for a moment he felt bad that he hadn’t anticipated that, but then his tongue slipped in more deeply as John’s anus unexpectedly relaxed, and thought fled again. Now he could push further in.  
  
Just past the muscle at the entrance, John was loose and hot and mysterious. Sherlock was prepared to taste, well, excrement, but the channel was still tasteless. Interesting. Sherlock slowly dragged his tongue almost all the way out and then pressed back in, thrilling to hear John sob in response.  
  
“Sherlock oh fuck oh fuck I need to come please god let me come I can’t take it any more this is the most incredible thing I’ve ever felt, get this thing off me I’m going to burst let me come now please please I beg you I love you I love you you’re amazing I need you fuck me now Sherlock get your cock inside me I need you fuck me I love you…”  
  
Sherlock blinked, his tongue halfway buried inside John. He’d completely forgotten about the plan for fucking. He was abruptly aware of his own throbbing cock, leaking pre-cum all over the sheets. He couldn’t wait any longer. He needed to be inside John _now_.  
  
But was John open enough?  
  
He scrambled for the lube and spilled it all over his hand, getting a generous pool on the bed. He slowly slid one finger into John, who moaned and babbled a little incoherently, and he met no resistance. He tried a second finger—and John immediately clenched around him and yelped in pain.  
  
“Shh, shh…” he comforted, using his clean hand to rub John’s thigh. “You’re not quite open enough, darling. Let me open you. Relax and enjoy it, just think about how you’re tied to the bed—” He felt his second finger slip in a little. “—and how you’ve let my _tongue_  inside you, how I’ve been licking into your body; think about how very open you are to me.”  
  
Sherlock grabbed the lube with his free hand and poured more all over his embedded fingers and John’s arse crack, slipping the second finger in further and holding it there.  
  
“Just breathe, John. Breathe and relax and feel the fullness of my fingers inside you, opening you up. You are going to be so very open for me, hot and wide, ready for my thick cock. I’m going to lube my cock up so slick and then slide it into you, deep inside, until you are full of me, and then I’m going to pump you full of my cum, John. You’re going to be full of my jism, and it’s going to drain back out of you when you stand up, because you are mine now, and I’m marking you, I’m marking you as mine.”  
  
Sherlock felt John’s muscle contract and hoped that was an arousal thing and not a worry thing. He reached around inside with his fingertips, and there—that nub, that must be—  
  
“OH GOD!!!”  
  
—yep, that must be John’s prostate.  
  
He moved his fingertips to the sides and very, very lightly applied a little pressure.  
  
“Sherrrrrrrlock…”  
  
He reached down and mouthed at one of John’s arsecheeks and sternly told his cock to be patient. Coating a third finger in some excess lube in the crack, he slowly tried introducing it to John’s hole. There was some resistance at first, and then the muscle released and he was in. He held very still.  
  
“Are you okay, John?”  
  
“Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh…”  
  
He tried stroking a little on one side of the prostate gland.  
  
“OH FUCKING GOD.”  
  
That seemed positive. He slid the rest of the third finger in.  
  
“FUCK ME, SHERLOCK, fucking fuck me right fucking now or I swear to god I’ll do something we’ll both regret.”  
  
Sherlock began to move his fingers in and out of John, slowly. More incoherent howling happened. Sherlock couldn’t wait any longer; he crawled up until his groin was flush with his wrist and started humping in time with his thrusts. He needed to get inside John so badly that he felt like he could taste it; it tasted like copper and coconuts. Some part of him realized this was not logical; the rest of him was focused on the plight of his cock.  
  
“John, John...I need to be inside you…”  
  
“Oh thank fucking god.”  
  
Sherlock carefully pulled out his fingers, wiped them heedlessly on the sheets, and drizzled the rest of the lube on his cock, trying not to touch himself for fear that he would come before he entered John.  
  
“Sherlock...please...I’m not kidding, I think my heart is going to break, I’m so empty...please, please, please come inside me, I’m so alone…” John began to cry.  
  
Alarmed, and feeling somewhat ashamed at how his arousal jumped even higher at these words, Sherlock positioned himself over John’s prone form. He used his hand to slide the head of his cock up and down John’s crease.  
  
“Oh god…” John called brokenly.  
  
When he found John’s entrance—now no longer a tight pucker but a loose, welcoming hollow—he pressed into it, and as his flared cockhead breached the ring of muscle, both of them groaned.  
  
Sherlock forced himself to pause, panting.  
  
“Okay?”  
  
“Keep going,” John gritted out.  
  
Sherlock couldn’t hold back. John was so hot inside, and so slippery from all the preparation. Sherlock had never fucked anyone bare. The sensation was far more intimate. He slid until he was fully engulfed in John, and then he pressed his chest against John’s back, and wrapped his arms around John’s arms, and buried his face in John’s shoulder.  
  
He’d never felt this close to anyone in his life.  
  
John craned his head around and kissed Sherlock’s face, wherever he could reach, and Sherlock angled his head so that they were kissing, messily, their lips soft from emotion, John’s mouth salty from tears.  
  
John pulled back a little and choked out a tiny laugh.  
  
“You’d better start moving mister, or we’re going to have words.”  
  
Sherlock drew back and thrust in, hard, in response. John groaned.  
  
“Oh _fuck_  yeah.”  
  
Sherlock lifted back up off of John, leaned down, gave his neck a light bite, and began to fuck him in earnest. John started grunting in time with each thrust. The bed, which was built _not_  to succumb to such things, nonetheless began to squeak. Sherlock’s timing was ruthless and metronomic; he pounded into John with the perfection of a drumbeat.  
  
“Sherlock…” John gasped out between thrusts. “Get...this...thing...off...me; I...need...to...come... _now_ …”  
  
“Oh, God, John, I’m sorry!” Sherlock paused and reached under John. Upon feeling John’s weeping-wet cock, he took the time to stroke and fondle it for a few moments while John wailed in protest. Finally, he unsnapped the leather strap and John gasped. Sherlock went back to fucking, experimenting with his angle until some eloquent yelling let him know he’d found the prostate.  
  
It took only three more strokes until John was sobbing: “I’m coming, Sherlock, I’m coming, oh fucking god I’m coming I’m coming I’m coming…”  
  
The contractions of John’s passage around Sherlock handily led to his own crisis, and he groaned long and loud as he felt his own cum shooting deep inside his lover. He marvelled at the satisfaction of knowing that instead of being stoppered into a latex balloon, he was painting John’s insides with his own DNA; marking him as his own, indeed, with shot after long, hot shot of thick fluid.  
  
After what seemed like full minutes of bliss, Sherlock pulled out carefully and took the time to watch the rush of fluids pouring back out of John. It was obscene and gratifying and one of the more fascinating things he’d witnessed. He bent to untie the knots in the ropes, and as he did it, he kissed John’s back and arse and thighs, over and over; unable to stop, feeling a compulsion to let his partner know how loved and cherished he was.  
  
When John was freed from the ropes, he rolled over, off the sodden pillow, and put one arm up over his sweat-drenched forehead. Sherlock kicked the pillow off the bed and clambered up to lie next to John, gathering him into his arms, kissing his damp hair and murmuring:  
  
“I love you, I love you, I love you…”  
  
John smiled and nuzzled against Sherlock’s sweaty chest. Sherlock reached to drag the sullied duvet over them and squeezed John closer as sleep took them both.  
  


* * *

  
_15:30_  
  
John stumbled out of bed, aiming straight for the refrigerator. He was so parched. He opened it and grabbed for the first thing he saw: a neon yellow plastic bottle that turned out to be full of Gatorade. He gulped half of it down before returning to the bed and nudging at Sherlock.  
  
“Sh’lock. Wake up. Drink. Dehydrated.”  
  
“Nngh.” Sherlock turned over.  
  
John sighed. “Sherlock. C’mon. Up up. Drink.”  
  
Sherlock pulled a pillow over his head. John yanked it back off. Sherlock groaned in protest.  
  
“Get _up_.” John made his fingertips as pointy as possible and started poking at Sherlock’s back.  
  
“Stop it,” Sherlock whined.  
  
“Must. Get. Up.” When weak clawlike poking didn’t work, he scooted down in the bed, spooned Sherlock, and started grinding up against him. Now Sherlock’s groans of protest turned to soft moans of approval.  
  
“If you get up,” John wheedled, “there might be rewards.”  
  
Sherlock rolled over and tried to kiss John; John leaned out of reach.  
  
“First: hydration!”  
  
Sherlock eyed the big bottle of yellow liquid in John’s hand.  
  
“I would rather shrivel dry like a mummy.”  
  
“You must drink something. Doctor’s orders.”  
  
Sherlock leapt out of bed as John came at him with the Gatorade. “I will call for tea, as any _civilized_  person would do.” He grabbed at the phone and did just that. John shrugged and worked on consuming the rest of the sports drink.  
  
They had both managed to put on pants by the time there was a commotion outside the room. They heard arguing, and then shouting, and just as the shouting got really angry, Sherlock flung open the door.  
  
“For God’s sake, it’s room service! I called them myself! It’s _tea_!”  
  
“We can’t be too careful!” One agent had a young woman in a hotel uniform up against the wall in a choke-hold; another agent was crawling under the tablecloth that covered the wheeled cart. Pastries and teacups were strewn on the floor. John could see that the hotel staff person’s cheeks were streaked with tears, but that she was not making a sound, and that her expression was determined.  
  
“Let her go at once! That’s Maureen! I’ve known her for a year, she wouldn’t hurt me if a gun was pointed at her head!” Which was an apt thing for Sherlock to say, seeing as another agent was doing exactly that.  
  
“We haven’t vetted her!”  
  
“ _I have vetted her._ ” Before John could move off the bed, Sherlock had knocked the gun from the one agent’s hand and had despatched her to the floor; he had extracted Maureen from the clutch of the other agent, who was now bent in two and gasping for breath. He hustled Maureen into their room, where John wrapped an arm around her shoulders and led her to the sofa. Sherlock stepped back into the hallway.  
  
“You must warn us if you are having something delivered to the room, Mr Holmes.”  
  
Sherlock sighed. “I suppose that is reasonable. But what is absolutely unconscionable is that you have not, by now, vetted and memorized all of the hotel employees; in addition, it is very interesting that someone you have _not_  vetted managed to make it into this hallway. Are you having some confusion as to your directives? Shall I call my brother for clarification of your mission for you?”  
  
The one agent who was still standing rubbed a hand over his face, very unprofessionally; his other hand was pressed to the comms unit in his ear. “No need; he is making it clear that another team is on its way now.” The agent slipped into a more formal, somewhat toneless delivery as he said: “I apologize to both you, Mr Holmes, and to Dr Watson, for putting you in danger by not doing our jobs well enough. I am certain that the next team will be unimpeachable in their service.” These last two sentences were clearly dictated to the agent by whomever was speaking to him through his earpiece.  
  
The elevator dinged. The still-standing agent whipped around, aiming his gun at the elevator doors; the paramedics and agents in the elevator came out guns first. Both sides sighed at seeing each other and lowered their weapons. The paramedics immediately gathered up the downed agents and pulled them into the elevator, accompanied by the able-bodied agent, who left with a hangdog expression. The second elevator dinged, and three more agents stepped out, weapons drawn but not aimed, and somewhat cautiously entered the hallway. Now there were five very conspicuous agents positioned next to the suite doors and along the hallway. Sherlock groaned and retreated back into the room.  
  
The ruined tea assembly was left in the hall.  
  
Sherlock immediately reopened the door. “New imbeciles! We will be ordering a _new tea service_. Expect it anon. Do not shoot it or the delivery person; the tea is for _drinking_.” Then he slammed the door again.  
  
“Maureen, is it?” John had pulled on some jeans and a t-shirt before he sat down next to Maureen, who had been watching all these goings-on as best she could, from the sofa, with some interest.  
  
“Yes,” she said quietly.  
  
“I’m terribly sorry about what happened to you. I’m a medical doctor. Are you feeling all right? Sherlock, get some water for Maureen.”  
  
Sherlock grabbed a bottle of water out of the refrigerator and came to perch on the coffee table. He took Maureen’s hands in his.  
  
“You were very brave out there,” he told her seriously. “Always knew you were made of steel and sterling.”  
  
Maureen grinned at him.  
  
“It’ll take more than some rookie with a chokehold to scare me. I would’ve gotten out of it if it weren’t for the damn gun.”  
  
John handed her the water. “Aren’t you going to ask why we have all these...uh...bodyguards up here?”  
  
“None of my beeswax. You learn in the hotel business to keep your eyes and ears open and your mouth shut. We all know something’s going on; we don’t know what it is, but we will protect Sherlock with our lives. These fools with guns don’t seem to have a clue, but you can count on the St Regis to watch out for you. You too, Dr Watson. You’re treating Sherlock well, so you’re under our watch too.”  
  
John felt unexpectedly proud at that.  
  
“We already caught one fellow trying to get in through a window washing rig. There are no window washers scheduled for this month. SFPD already took him away. Didn’t see any of these black uniform fellows catching onto that.”  
  
Sherlock laughed out loud and started texting on his phone.  
  
“Are you gloating to Mycroft?”  
  
“You bet I am.”  
  
John chuckled.  
  
“Can we do anything else for you, Maureen?”  
  
“No sir, Dr Watson. You just hold tight and we’ll get you that tea.”  
  
John started to protest—this whole tea service thing wasn’t his idea—but Maureen was already on her walkie talkie, and she’d been through enough; it seemed impolite to decline.  
  
As Maureen was leaving, Sherlock stopped her and gently kissed her on the cheek.  
  
“Thank you Maureen. For everything.”  
  
She looked at him sharply.  
  
“Tomorrow, then?” she said with a sudden realization.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“I’ll let them know. Will you need help leaving, with all this going on?” She waved at the hallway beyond the closed door.  
  
“I think that would be best, yes.”  
  
“We’ll take care of it. You’ll need a car, of course; I’ll let Karl know.”  
  
John saw Sherlock smile softly as Maureen left.  
  
“What was that all about?”  
  
“Tomorrow, John, _we make our escape_.”  
  


* * *

  
_15:45_  
  
Sherlock’s phone rang. He listened for a moment, then handed it to John.  
  
“It’s for you.”  
  
“Hello?”  
  
“Dr Watson. I wanted to apologize to you personally. There have been some inexcusable problems that have now been handled. If anything else goes wrong, you or Sherlock are to call me immediately. I am appalled at the performance over the past few hours and I am very, very sorry for the danger in which you have been placed.  
  
“If it is any comfort, the unfortunate problems you two have been through have exposed some severe holes in our security system that I have now corrected, and you may well have saved lives in the future. That, however, is no excuse. I hope to be able to make this up to you at some future date.”  
  
Mycroft sounded harried, angry, and terribly contrite. John was kind of thrown. Mycroft couldn’t have predicted the sniper; since then, he and Sherlock had been irritated by nosy agents, had a lovely shower, teased said agents, had mind-blowing, life-altering sex, and watched those agents terrorize a staff member whilst ruining their tea service. All in all, not really something that the so-called British government needed to be prostrating himself over in abject mortification.  
  
“Well, thank you, then, Mr Holmes. I appreciate it?”  
  
“Take care of yourself and my brother, Dr Watson.” The line went dead.  
  
John looked over at Sherlock for help.  
  
“Need a Mycroft translation?”  
  
“ _Please._ ”  
  
Before Sherlock could explain, though, there was a knock at the door. Sherlock (still in just his pants) opened it to find an unmolested tea service being pushed in by an unmolested staff member. John looked into the hall and saw professional-looking agents, dressed in their obvious black suits with obvious black indoor sunglasses, standing like statues.  
  
“Thank you, Tim.” John watched as Sherlock slipped a $100 bill to the kid who looked like he was all of 15 years old.  
  
“Thanks, man.” The boy grinned and did some complicated hand shake/bump maneuver with Sherlock, who mirrored it perfectly, and then left the room. Sherlock rolled the cart in and began to pour the tea. John grabbed a cream puff.  
  
“Why’d you give him a tip? You haven’t tipped anyone else; you said the tips were built-in.”  
  
“We’re no longer on John Watson’s Generous Benefactor plan any more; we’re on the Mycroft the Control Freak plan. And while he is reasonably useful with tips, he cannot possibly have anticipated the need to reward someone for Bravery in Tea Service Duty against his own incredibly incompetent idiots.”  
  
“Fair point.” John took a sip of his admittedly exceptional tea and sat down on the sofa with a contented sigh.  
  
“So what did Mycroft say?” Sherlock prompted.  
  
“He apologized a whole lot about the agents, and he sounded really upset about it, and he said we may have saved future lives. He couldn’t have known there was going to be a sniper, Sherlock. So the agents were a little overzealous about Maureen...I don’t really understand why Mycroft was so unsettled.”  
  
“Ah. Well, remember how I told you this would make an excellent dress rehearsal for an actual assassination attempt on a British official? He’s agitated because they’re blowing it. We were able to spot most if not all of his agents. The St Regis employees—who, while professional, attentive, and very loyal, are not exactly trained in espionage—were able to find one of the snipers that _the trained agents missed_. These ‘cream-of-the-crop’ operatives took down a fine, gentle human without having a clue that she was _on our side_. And those are just the mistakes we know of. We’ve been rather busy and sequestered; who knows what kind of fuck-ups have been going on outside. I assure you Mycroft knows. And I haven’t seen him this angry in a long, long time.”  
  
“Uh, how would you know? You didn’t talk to him!”  
  
“We’ve been texting. And he spoke to me before he talked to you.”  
  
“For like, ten seconds…”  
  
“That’s plenty of time. I heard his voice.”  
  
John stared at Sherlock.  
  
“We, uh. We have a kind of...unique connection, my brother and I.”  
  
“And yet you are certain he hates you.”  
  
“He does. That does not negate the fact that we understand each other perfectly.”  
  
John shook his head and tabled the puzzle once again.  
  
“If he’s so powerful—if his resources are unlimited—then why have there been so many mistakes?”  
  
“He said he’s been warning the Americans about this for months and they refused to listen. I believe something happened to his contact here, and he has been dealing with more traditional bureaucratic channels. I expect this debacle will help him make his case for future negotiations, though things will only truly be solved when his contact is reinstated or he develops another. All real governing is done between individuals. The rest is for show.  
  
“Be assured, we’ve got the real thing now. There are two operatives in the hall that are quite difficult to see, and I suspect we are being guarded by some that even I cannot spot, though I certainly can guess where they are.”  
  
John sighed, feeling a bit better about their security but still wishing desperately for the SIG Sauer tucked back in the safe in his bedsit.  
  
“Tell me more about this escape plan, and about how Maureen knew about it.”  
  
“Well, obviously the staff know I am no longer employed; Mycroft saw to that whether I wanted to quit or not. It was an easy guess to think I would be moving on physically. When she saw what nonsense is going on outside our door, and knowing me as she does, she could see that it was time for me to go. She knows I have no access to private transportation; therefore, she has alerted Karl, the concierge, to arrange a car for us. It will be on Mycroft’s tab, of course, but he won’t see the bill until we are well away. The St Regis will take care not to bill him for several days. She will make sure that the people to whom I am closest are available tomorrow morning so that I may say my goodbyes.”  
  
“You two definitely are brothers.”  
  
Sherlock looked horrified.  
  
“Why would you say such a hateful thing?”  
  
“Do I have a say in any of this?”  
  
“Of course you do!”  
  
“Do you know when, how, and to where we are escaping?”  
  
“Yes, but…”  
  
“But?”  
  
“You can choose what we eat,” Sherlock finished lamely, biting his lower lip.  
  
John got up, found some whiskey, and added it to his tea.  
  
“Okay, I think you’d better tell me the whole plan.”  
  
“We leave tomorrow morning, just before dawn. The staff will cause a distraction so that we can escape down the stairs. We’ll just go a couple of flights, in deference to your leg; we can take the freight elevator the rest of the way. Karl will have the car ready for us at the staff entrance. When we leave, we will of course be followed. I am going to take you to Ocean Beach, because you need to see the Pacific from San Francisco before we go.”  
  
“Wait. ‘Ocean Beach’? Isn’t that a redundant name?”  
  
“No; you can have a beach at a lake, or on a river, or on a sea…”  
  
“Okay, okay, I just think it sounds weird. Like, ‘Sandy Beach.’ Or, ‘Beach Near Water.’”  
  
“ _Regardless_ , we will go to _the beach_ and I will show you the beautiful view—”  
  
“With the sunrise?”  
  
“Yes, but that will be behind us, because the ocean is to the west of us, John. Really, do pay attention.”  
  
John rolled his eyes.  
  
“Then, as we are enjoying the sand blowing in our faces, a couple of friends of mine will cause a bit of a delay for our tail, and we will depart. We will travel across the Golden Gate Bridge—”  
  
John actually clasped his hands together near his heart.  
  
“Oh! That’s wonderful! I really wanted to see that!”  
  
Sherlock coughed. “Yes, so you’ll see that _as we drive across it_. And then we will be on Highway 101, and we will get rid of any other annoying tails, and we will make our way up to Humboldt County.”  
  
“What’s Humboldt County?”  
  
“A far-away place where we should be able to hide while we try to figure out what _we_  want to do.”  
  
“What’s it like?”  
  
“Mostly trees. We’ll stick to the coast; you can see lots of water, if you like. Rather chilly. Lots of pot growers, but we shan’t be visiting them. Plenty of people who think they are hippies, but we shan’t be visiting them either. We may spend a bit of time in the Humboldt State library.”  
  
“Y’know, I can’t quite figure out what it is about Mycroft that is so irritating. It should be lovely, having someone offer to step in and take care of all our worries. I mean, let’s look at it. He offered to get us jobs, a place to live, get us there safely; why does that set my teeth on edge?”  
  
“Because we have no choice in the matter.”  
  
“He said we could take our time; make our own decisions about where we go and what we do.”  
  
“Yes. But it’s all under _his protection_. It’s all dancing to _his tune_. It’s as though we were having delightful, raunchy sex, and yet from afar, Mycroft was watching and silently judging. He’s not actually interfering, yet it’s still unnerving and patronizing.” Sherlock’s eyes got wide; he stopped talking, walked over to the sink and started fiddling with the coffee maker.  
  
John stared at him.  
  
“Sherlock.”  
  
“So we’ll go on up to Humboldt. I know a lovely little café in Arcata, I think you’ll really enjoy it—”  
  
“Sherlock. Is Mycroft watching us right now?”  
  
“Or there’s this really long beach I can take you to; it’s quite deserted, very mysterious in the fog—”  
  
“Sherlock whatever-your-middle-name-is Holmes. Has Mycroft seen us having all this sex?!”  
  
Sherlock turned around, sighed, and leaned up against the counter, clutching at it. He couldn’t look at John directly, so he scrutinized a variegated pothos sitting on a side table.  
  
“I should have said something earlier, John. At first, there was no need, because you were a client. And then, there was never a good time.”  
  
“Tell me,” John said through gritted teeth and a clenched jaw.  
  
“We keep security cameras in all Companion-fitted rooms. It has saved Companions several times now. Not me, of course. But it seemed innocuous enough that I never objected. I trust the people who view the camera feeds; I know them well, and I knew they would never divulge our activities. I knew they would, er, see that you were special to me, and would destroy the tapes. In fact, we had a conversation about that on Tuesday.” Sherlock looked up to see John glaring at him fiercely. He cleared his throat.  
  
“Mycroft won’t have been tapping into the system until this afternoon. He will have tried to access previous footage, but there isn’t any. When security destroys tapes for me, the recordings are irretrievable. I trained them well. So all he’s seen…”  
  
“... _Is the only time that we have made love_ ,” John concluded.  
  
Sherlock came over to the sofa and knelt in front of John, shoving the coffee table out of the way.  
  
“John. John. Please forgive me. I didn’t think. I knew he would do it, but then I forgot. All I was thinking about was you. Mycroft won’t—he won’t show it to anyone; he won’t share it. He won’t ever mention it. He’s not like that. He...he just wants to know that his security is working. _That’s all_. He doesn’t care about me; he doesn’t care that we’re having sex. He doesn’t care about sex, full stop. It’s irrelevant. He’s just watching to make sure that we’re not killed in a bloody massacre. Please, John. It means nothing. I can get him to turn the cameras off. This is why we have to leave here. It’s all Mycroft...he controls everything, he always _has_ , he runs my life, he _ruins_  it, he ruins _everything_. Please, please don’t leave me, John.”  
  
By now Sherlock was clutching John’s hands and had his face in John’s lap. This was different than the histrionics that morning, before John first called Mycroft to discuss going back to London. Sherlock seemed terrified. Whatever was wrong between Sherlock and Mycroft, it was really, really wrong, and John did not want anything to do with it; and at the same time, he felt that he might be the only person able to fix it.  
  
John took a few deep breaths while stroking Sherlock’s hair.  
  
“I will try not to think about what he saw this afternoon. Just call him and make sure the stream is turned off as of now. _Wait._  Do you think he has audio? Do you think he’s heard our plans?”  
  
“No, I’m sure he hasn’t.”  
  
Sherlock’s phone rang. Sherlock listened for a minute and hung up.  
  
“The video feeds are off; he had no audio.”  
  
“Then how the fuck did he know we were talking about it?”  
  
“Lip reading,” Sherlock said, as if it should have been obvious. “Would you feel better if I found the cameras and destroyed them?”  
  
“Immensely.”  
  
Sherlock set about doing exactly that.  
  


* * *

  
_16:00_  
  
Sherlock had been truly frightened that the video feed would be the last straw for John. While he had known he was going to have to get Mycroft involved if he wanted to follow John back to London, he had had no idea things would become so snarled and so dangerous so quickly. Mycroft’s ill-timed, presumptive call to John, that morning outside the hotel, when he revealed to John his usual patronizing list of suffocating solutions, had been worrying enough. But knowing John’s psychological issues, especially concerning his sexuality, and having honestly forgotten that Mycroft would be spying on them (the sick pervert)—he thought at that point he had lost John, that John would throw up his hands and have done with the both of the strange, and in Mycroft’s case, eerie, brothers.  
  
Sherlock was maybe more violent than he needed to be in crushing the tiny spy cams as he found them. He used the base of a very heavy (and very expensive) lamp to smash them to plastic dust. He found seven in John’s room and loo, including one that was a new model of which he hadn’t been aware—so tiny that he almost missed it. When he had destroyed that one, he got a text from Mycroft:  
  
_Well done._  
  
Sherlock allowed himself a grin.  
  
He hoped he had been right about saying that Mycroft had not had audio. The St Regis system was, of course, set up with an audio feed so that if a Companion needed to use the emergency phrase or, God forbid, was crying out in panic, help could be sent immediately. Sherlock knew that Mycroft did not really have time to listen to an audio feed and most likely had had Anthea monitoring the video; she was definitely too busy to be listening to what was basically a porno soundtrack.  
  
He was even less sure about the veracity of his characterization of Mycroft’s sexuality, or lack thereof. Sometimes he was certain that the Ice Man persona that Mycroft cultivated with his political rivals and his staff was indeed the real Mycroft; sometimes, though, he thought he glimpsed something else. Any thought of his brother having actual feelings, particularly sexual ones, made him extremely uncomfortable, and so he simply ignored any hints in that direction.  
  
“Got ‘em all?” John asked, eyeing the camera detritus.  
  
“Absolutely,” Sherlock confirmed.  
  
John immediately stripped out of all his clothes and hopped back on the bed. “Then get over here. I want to ravish you with no one watching.”  
  
Sherlock grinned, slipped off his pants, and slithered onto the bed. He curled his arms around John’s legs and nuzzled into John’s pubic hair, nudging his nose against the half-hard cock nestled there.  
  
“You want to ravish me, eh?” he said, mouthing at the firm shaft of flesh.  
  
John groaned.  
  
“God, yes.”  
  
“What are you going to do to me?” Sherlock licked a stripe up John’s cock, which twitched in response, filling out even more. John raised up on his elbows, looking down at Sherlock with inky eyes.  
  
“I’m going to bring you close to orgasm, over and over, until you are sweaty and desperate and begging me to take you. Then, and only then, I will enter you and mark you as mine, just as you marked me.”  
  
Sherlock’s mouth dropped open. John’s voice had gone dark and commanding; the power in it had made the blood rush from Sherlock’s head into his erection at an unprecedented speed. He was ashamed to hear himself _whimper_. He remembered the feeling of John’s body protecting his mere hours earlier, and he was reminded that while John often appeared docile and domesticated, the consummate soldier lived on within him.  
  
John coaxed him up the bed with a beckoning hand motion. He settled Sherlock on a mound of pillows, propped himself over Sherlock’s torso—braced on hands and knees, not touching Sherlock anywhere—and simply stared at him for a while. Sherlock had never had a problem making eye contact with other people; ordinary humans were always the ones to look away first. Only Mycroft (and one other person he didn’t care to think of just then) could force him to avert his eyes. But John’s direct gaze was making him uncomfortable.  
  
It was mesmerizing. John’s expression was a combination of possessiveness and love, fierce pride and overwhelming dominance. Sherlock felt pinned by the way John was watching him. Eventually, John leaned down, still keeping eye contact, and touched his lips to Sherlock’s. Very slowly, he tilted his head to fit their mouths together, making a seal but not moving his lips. Sherlock held his breath. John breached Sherlock’s mouth with his tongue, gradually invading until Sherlock had to close his eyes.  
  
John began to suck on Sherlock’s tongue, so, so slowly, and he moved his hands so that they were wrapped around Sherlock’s skull. He let his body drop steadily down to press, bit by bit, against Sherlock’s, until Sherlock felt surrounded by John’s skin, his breath, his hold, his scent. John was still, heavy, keeping Sherlock in place, letting him know this would proceed only as John wished.  
  
Sherlock’s heart was pounding. He was thrilled. John was absolutely unpredictable. He could not ever remember feeling so safe at the same time as he was so fascinated. His cock, pinned under one of John’s surprisingly heavy thighs, was throbbing with excitement.  
  
John could feel it too, evidently, because he chuckled into Sherlock’s mouth. Achingly slowly, he let one hand leave its warm hold on Sherlock’s head and begin a caressing journey along his neck, moving firmly under his arm, down his side, and then across his hip to slide between them and wrap around his cock. Sherlock moaned around John’s unmoving tongue.  
  
Instead of stroking, John began to squeeze, pulsing his grip around Sherlock in a leisurely rhythm between the warm crush of their bodies. It felt delicious but was far from enough sensation to get Sherlock off.  
  
He tried to grind up against John, who immediately withdrew his hand and rested it on Sherlock’s hip. Sherlock stilled and was surprised to find himself panting, through his nose, in confusion. John’s tongue, unmoving, still filled his mouth. This stillness, this immobilization was utterly novel. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do. What did John want? How was he supposed to act? He felt lost, adrift...nothing in his life had prepared him for this.  
  
John slowly slid his hand between them again and resumed his gentle squeezing. He took his other hand from Sherlock’s head and slid it in a meandering path that led between their chests. His fingertips grasped a nipple and began pressing it in a counter-rhythm to the cock squeezing. At the same time, John began to thrust his tongue very slightly into Sherlock’s mouth.  
  
Sherlock moaned in relief at the stimulation, which felt vibrant after minutes of being so still. He could feel his cock jerking between them, in John’s grip, in response to the pinching on his tender nipple. The tongue fucking was incredibly erotic, even though John was only moving in and out a few centimetres. Sherlock stayed motionless, afraid to do anything that would stop John’s actions, and this made him feel helpless—entirely at John’s mercy. When John pinched at the nipple with his fingernails, the pain was startling, magnified far beyond what it would have warranted outside this strange interlude, and Sherlock felt his cock leak pre-cum onto his stomach.  
  
John chuckled again into his mouth. It sounded cruel and fond at the same time. Sherlock felt overwhelmed; light-headed.  
  
John moved a finger up to stroke at the slit at the head of Sherlock’s cock, and the feeling was so sharp that Sherlock wailed around John’s slowly pumping tongue. John responded by stilling both hands, and Sherlock’s eyes snapped open to see John staring down at him, an inch away, with a stern expression. He felt tears leak out of his eyes.  
  
“Please,” he tried to whimper around John’s tongue.  
  
John began squeezing his cock again and started flicking at his nipple—a new, startling feeling. Sherlock began to make little whimpering noises in the same rhythm as the squeezes on his cock. The pulses around his aching, turgid flesh...the flicks on his now-sore nipple...the incessant tongue-fucking of his tender mouth...all of these layers were building, and he could feel his balls draw up towards his body as his orgasm began to gather, getting closer, approaching so that he could finally—  
  
John rolled off to the side, propped his head on his elbow, and watched Sherlock.  
  
At first, Sherlock stared unseeing at the ceiling, unable to process what had just happened.  
  
“What—John—”  
  
He looked down at his purple cock, the head glistening with pre-ejaculate.  
  
“Oh, God, John, _please…_ ” He turned his head to look at John, an expression of desperation and betrayal on his features. He found John smiling innocently back at him.  
  
“That’s one!” John said happily.  
  


* * *

  
16:45  
  
John was amazed at how Sherlock had responded to being pinned down. He hadn’t had any idea how he was going to bring Sherlock to the edge, but teasing him was an urge that had popped into his head, and he’d just run with it, doing what felt good. After the day they had had, he had needed to assert his Right to Sherlock. First he’d had to talk to Mycroft and find out that horrible things had happened to Sherlock in the recent past that he could not go and fix. Then those horrible things had reached out to try to kill them both. And Mycroft had reached out to try to take over their lives, with invasive movie-style secret agents—and then he’d found out that all week, people had been watching and listening to him have sex with this man with whom he had fallen in love! Including his meddling brother!  
  
John had had quite enough, and Captain John Watson had come to the fore. He’d felt a deep need to put his body between Sherlock and the rest of the world—much as he had on the street—and also to prove to the world, and to Sherlock, that Sherlock now belonged to _him_. It was a primitive desire but one borne of the rational discussions they had had about their emotions, and he refused to feel guilty about it.  
  
Besides, Sherlock had clearly gotten off on it. Well...almost.  
  
Now he had to think of another way to bring Sherlock close to orgasm. He looked back down at Sherlock’s weeping, angry cock, which looked about one mild breeze away from coming all over Sherlock’s chest. He leaned over Sherlock and peered at the floor.  
  
“I think we might need some help.” He hopped up and retrieved the somewhat damp cock strap they had used earlier. Sherlock caught sight of it and groaned.  
  
“Now now, I want to make things easier for you; don’t want you to have to struggle not to ruin our fun.” John bent to wrap the strap around the base of Sherlock’s penis, but he was deliberately inefficient, stroking the shaft, fondling the testicles, and generally making Sherlock’s state more critical before he finally snapped the leather tight around the straining flesh.  
  
“There we go, much better.” He gave the bound cock a few little pats; Sherlock growled. John saw that Sherlock seemed to be emerging from the state he’d entered as John had restrained him. John wanted to keep him off balance; a diabolical plan bloomed in his mind.  
  
“I think I want to play a little game with you. If you play it with me, and you’re very good, I’ll let you come later. If you refuse, or you try to cheat, well, I’ll just jack off in front of you and make you watch for the rest of the night.”  
  
John had no idea how he would enforce such a threat, but he saw Sherlock’s eyebrows crease with a concern that was incredibly satisfying.  
  
“Stay _put_.” He went to fetch a damp towel from the loo; then he gathered a piece of the rope from the carpet, a sixties-style floor lamp that loomed in a draping arc, and two trays of ice. John dragged the lamp so that it was hanging over the bed; he nestled the pile of ice in the towel, tied it into a bundle, and hung it with the rope so that it was suspended over Sherlock’s crotch. Sherlock watched all these preparations with keen attention.  
  
John crawled up and positioned himself so that he was crouched over Sherlock’s head, propped as comfortably as possible on the pillows. If he leaned forward, his cock would dip down into Sherlock’s mouth.  
  
“Here’s how the game works.”  
  
Sherlock stared up at him with complete focus. Sherlock’s face was upside down from John’s perspective.  
  
“That little bundle will start dripping any minute now—see, there it goes.”  
  
Sherlock jerked a bit as an icy drop fell on his straining cock.  
  
“Every time it drips on you, you must suck or lick my cock. If you do this properly three times in a row, then I will reward you with one suck on your cock. If you fail—if you miss a drip, or stimulate me out of turn—then I will slap your cock. Simple, right? I will be watching, and I will see each and every drip. This shouldn’t be too hard to do!”  
  
Sherlock glared at him through narrowed eyes. Clearly he could see that this was going to become uncomfortable quickly.  
  
“Okay, let’s get started!” John said cheerily and arranged himself so his cock was in Sherlock’s mouth. This took some doing, actually, as he didn’t want to smother Sherlock with his arse, and he ended up on all fours over Sherlock, his face very close to the drip zone. Which turned out to be convenient for the reward section of the game. Also, it meant that Sherlock could not see the drips and would have to concentrate on feel alone.  
  
John congratulated himself on coming up with something really difficult off the cuff! These sex games weren’t so mysterious, after all. Once one got into the right frame of mind, it was all—  
  
_Drip drip_  
  
John felt two sucks on his cock and struggled not to plunge into Sherlock’s mouth. Gasping, he counted out loud, “One, two.” He looked up and watched as a droplet slowly collected at the bottom of the towel bundle. _Very slowly_.  
  
_C’mon, c’mon…_  
  
He felt Sherlock’s tongue obediently still against his shaft and cursed himself for the stupid rules. This wasn’t supposed to be difficult for _him_ , he was the game master! He watched the droplet take its time, imagining it checking its hair in the mirror, touching up its lipstick, trying on a different pair of earrings. And then reaching for the cold cream and announcing that that eye colour was all wrong...He was certain that the droplet went back _into_  the towel.  
  
“Oh for god’s sake!”  
  
He could feel Sherlock smile around his cock.  
  
_Drip_  
  
*suck*  
  
“Three!” John bent down and gave Sherlock’s cock a long, leisurely pull with lots of tongue, getting a couple of icy drips on his own head for his trouble.  
  
The game went on for a few minutes. They settled into a rhythm; John was having some difficulty staying calm as Sherlock’s sucking became more and more elaborate. It was clear he was pulling out all the tricks he had learned as a Companion—things he was able to do only with his mouth and tongue, terribly unfair things that were making it almost impossible not to reach down and grab his face and just fuck into it, hard and fast. The only way John was holding back was by watching the almost constant stream of thin pre-cum drizzling from the tip of Sherlock’s purple head and hearing the faint, high-pitched whine he emitted every three drips when John bent down to reward him. John was approaching deep-throat levels of distance, working on ignoring his gag reflex, both as something to practice and as something to torment his cock-ring bound lover. Through the fog of arousal in his brain, he realized it was a bit not good, the delight he was taking in provoking Sherlock, but he couldn’t analyze it and had to trust that if anything truly bothered Sherlock, he would object.  
  
And then the ice really started melting.  
  
The drips came faster and in wildly irregular clusters, and John got to punish Sherlock a few times, slapping his prick hard enough to make it shift towards his hip at about a 20 degree angle from its proud, straight bearing up along Sherlock’s belly, hard enough to make drops of pre-cum fling out across his abdominal skin. It couldn’t have hurt, but Sherlock was startled the first time, and yelped around the solid flesh of John’s member in his mouth; the next few times, he simply grunted.  
  
And then John couldn’t keep up. He was trying to count, and lick at Sherlock between the drops, and Sherlock gave up and just started sucking John continuously, and John swatted weakly at Sherlock, who had the nerve to grind up at him, and then a bunch of ice shifted and a stream of _very_  cold water dumped through the towel onto Sherlock, who carefully did not make any movement with his mouth, remembering the delicate material within, and John laughed in surprise and covered Sherlock to protect him, pulling his cock from Sherlock’s mouth by accident and receiving the benefit of the whole bundle of ice, as the towel knot gave way, to the back of his neck in recompense.  
  
“ARGH.” John rolled off Sherlock and yanked the floor lamp over so it was safely perched above the carpet with its payload of chilled towel drips. Then he used the duvet to mop up the water from Sherlock’s crotch.  
  
Sherlock was almost doubled over, laughing.  
  
“That was the worst game anyone ever tried to invent.”  
  
“It was not!”  
  
“It was set up for absolute failure.”  
  
“Oh, you had fun. Admit it.”  
  
“None of your objectives were met.”  
  
“Not true!”  
  
“Name one.”  
  
“I got you all hot and bothered, but you didn’t come.”  
  
“‘Hot’ is not exactly the adjective I would use.”  
  
“Are you saying you didn’t enjoy it?”  
  
“Not at all. I’m saying it was a horribly designed game.”  
  
John was regretting his pledge to never tickle Sherlock. All he could do was cross his arms and pout.  
  
“Aww, there’s no need for that.” Sherlock pulled him down into his arms and kissed him, again and again, until the pout succumbed to warm, soft lips and tender licks.  
  
“You still haven’t come,” muttered John.  
  
“No, my dear, I have not. Does that make you happy?”  
  
John looked up from where they had rolled together on the bed with a smile. “Right now, yes it does, because it means I get to keep going.”  
  
“Oh Marie Curie, save me.”  
  


* * *

  
_17:30_  
  
Sherlock was a little baffled by John’s insistence on edging. His sudden need to take the lead, to prove himself in charge, especially of their sexual activities, seemed a direct reaction to finding out about the cameras. But why all this edging business? Perhaps it was part of an overall asserting of control: forcing Sherlock to lie under him, to stay still and quiet; shackling his cock, controlling when he could (and mostly could not) come; trying to control when and how he would perform and receive sex acts. It was all very primal, and Sherlock looked forward to experimenting with these themes a lot more with John.  
  
Right at the moment, though, he wasn’t quite sure what was coming next. John’s unpredictable behavior had him off-balance. He wanted to let go and trust this man who had wormed into his heart in just a few days, but he was trying to remember that he was far from helpless; he knew exactly how to use his mind and his body to remove himself from a situation if it was not okay.  
  
He watched, keeping his doubts from his face, as John positioned him once again on his back, against the pillows. John unearthed a new bottle of lube from somewhere—the toy bag, probably—and wriggled his way between Sherlock’s legs so that he was lying on top of him again.  
  
This time, John coated his own cock liberally, positioned it downwards so that the head was tucked into Sherlock’s crease and the shaft was snugged between his balls, and then leaned back over him, propped up on his arms.  
  
“Sherlock,” he said softly. “Have you been fucked by many men?”  
  
Well, shit. Sherlock had known this was coming; he’d just hoped it would be in a somewhat more neutral setting.  
  
“Yes, John, I think that was probably predictable, don’t you?”  
  
John gently ground his cock into the sensitive tissue tunnel he’d found.  
  
“Did you enjoy it?”  
  
“Is this some kind of morality play?”  
  
“I mean, did you get off on it?”  
  
“There are drugs that Companions take. Clients expect certain reactions.”  
  
“Sherlock, I’m trying to ask you something here.”  
  
Sherlock gave John a very unimpressed glare. It really seemed that they were going down the “save the prostitute” path again.  
  
John stopped grinding.  
  
“What I’m asking is: have you ever _enjoyed_  being fucked? Just for its own sake?”  
  
Sherlock blinked. Oh.  
  
“Um. There was one time. At home. When I almost...but. It didn’t happen. He had to go.”  
  
Sherlock was quiet for a bit. John stayed in position, watching patiently.  
  
Sherlock looked to the side, blinking. “No. Not really, no. It’s never been about that.”  
  
John climbed over Sherlock and sat next to him. He took Sherlock’s hand.  
  
“I’m sorry, sweety. That was the wrong way to ask that. I...I didn’t think that would be the answer.”  
  
Sherlock glanced over. Once again, he saw sadness in John’s eyes, but no pity. He wasn’t sure how John managed that, but he was grateful. He leaned his head on John’s shoulder, and John stroked fingers through his hair.  
  
“I don’t even really know what it’s supposed to feel like,” Sherlock reflected. “I prepare myself for clients. I have to be loose enough not to be damaged, but tight enough so they feel like they’re taking me for the first time. I learned that if I loosen myself with three fingers and then squeeze, I can usually simulate the experience they want without tearing. There was only one time I had to be taken off rotation for two days.”  
  
Sherlock was glad that John didn’t change the pace of the fingertips moving in his hair or try squeeze him in a hug.  
  
“Once in a while, they hit my prostate by accident, but that’s mostly unpleasant. I don’t want to feel that with a client. So I pretend; I’m very good at making ‘prostate’ noises. Every client who has fucked me has been certain he or she has been brilliant at finding and perfectly stimulating my prostate. I have been brilliant at ensuring they came nowhere close to that organ.  
  
“Is there more to getting fucked than that? People seem to enjoy being opened up; they seem to like prostate stim, but not the ‘bang bang bang’ that they always want to do to me; what seems to work is very light touches, very delicate, like I did with you. I suppose you’re only the second person I’ve ever even wanted to do anything sexual with; you’re the second person I’ve ever wanted to _feel_  anything with.”  
  
John leaned over and kissed Sherlock’s forehead softly. “I’d like to open you up with my fingers, slowly. And then, if you want me to, I’d like to fuck you, so you can see what it feels like when someone’s not trying to ram their cock in and use you to jack off.  
  
“I’d like you to keep the cock ring on until we’re fucking, so that you can feel what it’s like to come with someone inside you. Are you okay with all that?”  
  
Sherlock was staring at John. He knew his pupils were huge because he couldn’t focus very well. “I would like to know what that feels like,” he whispered.  
  
John slid back down on his belly and ducked under Sherlock’s leg. Sherlock felt John pushing lightly on the back of his thigh and he pulled his knee to his chest, exposing himself completely to John’s view.  
  
“Oh Sherlock...I can’t help but take a taste.” And John dipped in to do exactly that. Sherlock felt his wet tongue brush directly against his anus. It was somewhat different than he had imagined; knowing how many nerve endings were there did not prepare him for the sheer eroticism of being licked at the most vulnerable place on his body.  
  
He let out a whimper as the tip of John’s tongue circled around his furl. Then broad strokes were being applied across his entrance, and he looked down to see a pulse of pre-cum ooze out of his still-leather-bound cock. And then John was pushing in, just a little, and Sherlock wailed. It was too intimate, he couldn’t process it, he needed to come so very badly…  
  
And then John pulled away. Sherlock saw him wipe his mouth with the back of his hand—his lower face was covered in drool—and he was panting, which made Sherlock feel better; he wasn’t the only one affected.  
  
“Bloody fuck, I love you.” John muttered as he coated his hand with slick from the nearby bottle. He took a moment to curl his fingers into a fist, warming the lube. “One finger now.”  
  
“I’m not exactly a virgin,” Sherlock said breathlessly.  
  
“That’s no reason not to go slow.” And go slow John did, easing his fingertip in and out once, pushing in just a little further the next time, using such tiny increments that Sherlock snarled in frustration.  
  
“Johnnnnn! Just fuck me already!”  
  
Rather predictably, John stopped moving altogether. He took a moment to settle Sherlock’s drawn-back leg atop his shoulder and rested his head against it.  
  
“You are always in _such_  a hurry, aren’t you.”  
  
“You are the most sloth-like sex partner I’ve ever met.”  
  
“Careful, sloths have vicious claws.”  
  
“You keep your nails clipped shorter than a pianist.”  
  
“I could hold this position for hours.”  
  
“JOHN!”  
  
John grinned and began moving again, this time pushing gradually but inexorably all the way until he was buried up to the last knuckle. Sherlock sighed in relief.  
  
“Now more. More fingers. Now, John, _now_.”  
  
“I don’t think so. You do not sound nearly desperate enough.” To make his point, John used his free hand to stroke Sherlock’s cock, once. Sherlock bucked up into the touch, which was almost immediately withdrawn.  
  
“For a doctor, you are a very cruel man,” he gasped.  
  
John smiled beatifically and began fucking Sherlock again, leisurely, with one finger.  
  
Sherlock began to writhe a bit, trying to get more stimulation, but John just moved his hand with him, keeping the angle of his finger perfectly aligned with Sherlock’s passage. Sherlock gave up and lay back with a faint groan. John rewarded him with a second finger, slid slowly all the way in this time. Sherlock felt him rotate the pair around, stretching his muscle so unhurriedly that he almost couldn’t feel it. He was, in fact, starting to grow bored when John’s fingertips settled against his ventral wall and pushed, just a little.  
  
He was very suddenly un-bored.  
  
“ _Fuck!_ ”  
  
“There you are. Nice to see you again.”  
  
“John, John...do that again, please, John, now, again…”  
  
He felt the barest flick inside and his whole body arched in time with his cock leaping away from his abdomen.  
  
“Oh God...that must be my prostate...Oh John John John John you are incredible you are amazing I love you please more please please…”  
  
John did something that felt even more intense, and Sherlock was barely aware of a third finger sliding inside at the same time as he was bitterly reminded of the strip of leather keeping him from coming. He must have moved his hands towards his cock because John made a negative sound.  
  
“No, Sherlock...let’s wait until I’m inside you, okay?”  
  
“Please, John, _I need to come_ , please…”  
  
Sherlock was looking up at the ceiling, but he couldn’t see anything; he couldn’t think about anything but his desperate need to get off, and he felt a warm certainty that John Watson was the best thing he had ever come across in this entire world.  
  
He was vaguely aware of his leg being lowered. John’s fingers were removed, and he whined, but then they were gloriously replaced by a hot thickness—oh God, it was John himself, beautiful wise and wonderful John, his perfect cock, pushing into him and filling him and making everything _right_. And then John started to move, and it was slippery and hot and and felt like scratching an itch he never knew he had, and John was making sounds, oh, amazing sounds, and then he was kissing Sherlock, deep tongue-filled kisses, and then he was murmuring in Sherlock’s ear:  
  
“I love you so much, Sherlock; I love you and I’m going to tell you every day, and I’m going to make love to you and treasure your body and make sure you know you’re loved and protect you and keep you from harm and you’re never ever going to have to pretend, ever again, you’re mine now and I’m yours and everything’s going to be okay now…”  
  
And then he felt John’s hand at his cock, and the horrible strap was unsnapped, and he let out a yell as what seemed like hours of want and agony spilled out of his cock in surge after surge of hot jets of liquid, and John was pumping into him, saying “Yes, yes, come for me darling, yes…”  
  
And then Sherlock could feel John coming inside him! It was astonishing, he could actually feel the heat of John’s release—three, no _four_  splashes of warm fluid inside him, and he felt smug, satisfied, as though now he had irrevocable proof that he was John’s.  
  
John collapsed on him, and he wrapped his arms around his sweaty lover.  
  
“Am I too heavy?”  
  
“God, no. Stay exactly where you are.”  
  
Eventually, though, they shifted so that they were on their sides, and between them, they pulled up the covers again, before they fell all the way asleep: limbs tangled together, Sherlock’s face tucked into John’s neck.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angela’s last name, Rushman, is after Natalie Rushman, Black Widow’s alias when she is working for Tony Stark in _[Iron Man 2](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1228705/?ref_=nv_sr_2%22)_    
>   
> John’s “air dry” quote is from _[Jerry Maguire](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0116695/?ref_=nv_sr_1)_  
>   
>  “[You dance divinely](http://movie-sounds.org/oscar-films-sound-bites/on-the-waterfront-1954/ah-you-dance-divinely)” is from _[On the Waterfront](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0047296/?ref_=nv_sr_1)_  
>   
>  The waltz Sherlock hums is [Brahms’ Waltz in A Major Op. 39, No. 15](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=egSq_YFnmq4)  
>   
> [reef knot](http://www.bdsmwiki.info/Square_Knot)  
>   
> [rope](http://www.stockroom.com/Cotton-Bondage-Rope-P3081.aspx)  
>   
> [safety scissors](http://www.stockroom.com/Safety-Scissors-P5297.aspx)  
>   
> Karl the concierge is named after Karl the air traffic controller in _[Cabin Pressure](http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b00lmcxj)_  (played by [Ewen Macintosh](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ewen_MacIntosh))  
>   
>  **Safer Sex**  
>   
>  The [CDC](http://www.cdc.gov/hpv/vaccine.html) says that men up to the age of 21 can be vaccinated against HPV; let’s just assume that a San Francisco with legal Companions would provide vaccinations for such workers at any age. (I’m fairly pissed off that I’m not allowed to get one at 50.)  
>   
> Auntie Dalton is not a doctor. If you are not familiar with the term “fluid bonding”, or you need education or a refresher on safer sex practices, I recommend [this post](http://solopoly.net/2013/07/08/why-fluid-bonded-sex-is-um-sticky/)
> 
> ...which, as far as I am aware, is pretty damn accurate as a general guide to both monogamous and multi-partnered safer sexual practices. I have not put “barebacking” in the tags for a reason; I personally find barebacking (which to me is unnegotiated condom-free sex with a stranger) a turn-off. While I think that Sherlock and John are rather rushing their fluid bonding a little here, they do have some legit rationales for their decision—but I am not recommending fluid bonding with someone you’ve only known a week. Regardless, I’m making a distinction between random condom-free sex and our fictional lovers’ decision to go barrier-free just with each other after careful consideration. ‘kay? ‘kay.  
>   
>  **tl;dr: play safe, lovelies, so that you can keep reading fic!**
> 
> Come by and [see me on tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/daltongraham)!

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [spudqueen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/spudqueen/pseuds/spudqueen), who has been reading and encouraging me as I write this in "secret". This was an experiment to see what it was like to write a fic (almost) entirely "offline", as opposed to posting chapter-by-chapter. She thought I was mad but patiently read along and was my cheerleader and story brainstormer, as always. She is working on two great fics herself: A _The Imitation Game_ fic, ["The Very People No One Imagines"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3162761/chapters/6866594), and a Johnlock/Mystrade Old West AU, ["Under the Quicksilver Star"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2484857/chapters/5513570). Check 'em out!


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